What Was Left After
by Katria Bloom
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Six months after The Fall, John Watson arrives home to 221B to find a baby. In the three years Sherlock is presumed dead, John raises the child as his own. When Sherlock arrives home, the world he has rebuilt for himself starts to crumble all over again. Contains hints of John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Molly, and Irene Adler
1. Chapter 1

The baby's eyes are a deep, dark brown. That's the first thing John Watson noticed. The child was unearthly quiet, and it took John much longer than it should have to discover the small bundle- tucked, as it was, in a rather old-fashioned looking pram in the living room. John had returned from the surgery no later than usual. He had hung his coat, as was his routine, and went straight to the kitchen, bare of science experiments and body parts and anything that didn't belong in a kitchen. The only allowance to this was the microscope, which had been cleaned but otherwise unmoved.

John permitted himself a few allowances.

He mindlessly made tea, plucked a half-eaten sleeve of Hob Nobs out of the cupboard, and shuffled into the living room, avoiding the sofa to sit in his usual chair, the morning paper still laid out on the floor exactly where he left it. He ignored the pang the undisturbed flat triggered in his chest, put down his mug of tea, and kicked the paper away.

He was about to turn on the telly when he saw it. The pram, tucked in between the end of the sofa and the wall, right under the Warhol print of a skull that Sherlock always favoured. John stood quickly, his senses instantly on alert. Someone had been here, been and gone, without so much as disturbing the dust.

Despite his better judgment, John approached the pram without hesitation. He peered inside, and the baby peered back at him, it's dark, deep eyes more intense than a baby's had any right to be. It's brow was furrowed under sparse, dark hair, and the child studied John with unfocused singularity. The child didn't cry. Its hands were balled into tight fists and its lips were pursed tightly.

John couldn't suppress his surprised laugh, and when the baby's eyebrows shot up so high as to almost disappear into its hairline John brought a hand up, covering his lips with his fingertips as he stared down at the baby, who was becoming more restless.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened his messages, and found nothing new. He scrolled through his recent contacts and selected the last name on the list.

_MYCROFT_

_BAKER STREET ASAP EMERGENCY_

_JW_

The response was quite nearly instantaneous.

_Arrival in approximately twenty-four minutes. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

John slipped his phone back into his pocket and reached down for the child, lifting it carefully into his arms. It could be no older than five or six months, and John carefully lifted the waist of the baby's diaper to check the sex.

Ah. A boy then. A boy with a dry diaper, what felt like a full stomach, and a wrinkled scowl as he continued to stare at John.

"Hello there," John finally said, bouncing the child a bit awkwardly in his arms. The baby's frown softened a bit, and John checked his watch.

Twenty-four minutes never seemed quite so long before.

* * *

In all actuality, Mycroft Holmes arrived in precisely twenty-two minutes. John was watching out the window, a baby on his shoulder, when the black town car pulled up to the kerb. He went downstairs and opened the door just as Anthea, followed closely by Mycroft, mounted the stoop.

For once, Anthea's eyes were not on her Blackberry. She raised a delicate eyebrow, put her phone in an inside pocket of her blazer that instantly pulled John's interest, and turned to Mycroft, her face artfully neutral.

To his credit, Mycroft looked unfazed by the revelation. His jaw worked, he pressed his chin down to his chest, and he lifted his eyebrows. As his fingers tightened around the handle of his brolly he said, "Anthea, do go and fetch Doctor Watson the necessary...supplies."

Anthea nodded once and started back towards the car, her heels loud on the otherwise eerily quiet London street.

Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the child before pointing inside 221 with the tip of his umbrella. "I would suggest we relocate this discussion to more temperate climes," he said primly, and John couldn't help but roll his eyes.

With a quick glance down to the baby, who had fallen asleep at some point with a hand fisted in his cable knit jumper, John started back up the stairs, Mycroft close behind. John crossed directly to the pram and carefully deposited the child inside, covering it with the emerald green blanket that had been draped over the baby earlier.

Mycroft had made it no further than the entrance of 221B, his eyes resting on the skull that still held court over the mantelpiece. With a barely perceptible nod his gaze shifted to John, who had perched on the arm of his chair, his legs crossed out in front of him at the ankles.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" John asked when it was quite clear that Mycroft was not going to offer any information willingly.

Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath. He rolled the handle of his brolly in the palm of his hand before wrapping his fingers back around it firmly. He licked his bottom lip, and with the slightest shake of the head he said, "I am afraid, Dr. Watson, that I do not have an answer to that question. Though I can assure you that I will have every one of the associates I can spare trying to unearth any information that can possibly be unearthed. You have my word, and in most civilized circles my word carries quite a lot of weight."

John could hear the little Sherlock-voice in his head latch on to the last statement snidely, but listening to the little Sherlock-voice in his head made his chest ache, so he ignored it. Instead he swept a hand out toward the child. "What am I supposed to do, then? Keep him? He's not a stray dog, Mycroft, I can't just keep him."

"I will see to it that all the necessary forms are filled and filed promptly," Mycroft said with a dismissive flick of the wrist. "Someone obviously wanted you to have this child. It has been widely publicized, Sherlock's...end and the havoc it wreaked. They knew to whom this child's welfare would fall if they brought it to two-hundred and twenty-one B."

John swallowed thickly. "Do you think..." he cleared his throat, and pressed on, "...Sherlock?"

"Nonsense," Mycroft spat, conscious to keep his tone low. "Sherlock had nothing to do with this...complication. He's dead, John, and I'm quite certain he failed to father any children in his abbreviated existence." A buzzing sounded from Mycroft's person, and he deftly plucked his phone from his breast pocket, scanning the message quickly. "Anthea has returned with the necessities of child-rearing. If you require any more assistance do not hesitate to contact me, Anthea will be at your disposal. If new information arises, I will alert you directly."

John stood as Mycroft made his way to the door. "Wait, what if I don't want to do this?"

Mycroft's smile was thin as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "One is rarely allowed to pursue one's wants, Dr. Watson. Good night."

John collapsed in his chair, staring at the mug of cold tea and packet of Hob Nobs, no longer hungry.


	2. Chapter 2

There were two different birth certificates: the original birth certificate, which was from America, and the 'official' birth certificate, which was from the United Kingdom. The child had been born New York in the early hours of the morning, had been born prematurely and severely underweight, and had been in hospital for nearly a month.

The boy's name was James Adler Holmes; born to Irene Adler (deceased) and Sherlock Holmes (deceased). According to the accompanying medical reports, Irene had sustained a gunshot wound to the neck and had been taken to hospital in time to perform an emergency caesarian to try to save her child's life. They had, despite the doctor's original hypothesis, succeeded. Irene had, before losing consciousness, scrawled out the child's name, followed by Sherlock's, before ending with her own.

She died shortly after the baby drew his first breath.

Somehow Mycroft had that birth certificate nullified and had the child declared a natural born British citizen with no connection to America at all. John's head reeled at the possibility, but the new certificate of birth had been filled with all the same information.

Irene Adler (deceased) and Sherlock Holmes (deceased).

John was quite sure Mycroft had studied the documents thoroughly, but he had made no comment on the contents. In fact, John hadn't seen the man since the night of the frantic text on his part. The documents themselves had appeared on his coffee table overnight, and John texted Mycroft in a huff.

_NOT HOW BREAKING AND ENTERING WORKS, MEANT TO BE STEALING STUFF NOT LEAVING IT._

John didn't receive a text back, not that he was surprised.

He tidied the papers, his mind surprisingly blank, and he went in the kitchen to prepare a bottle for the baby. James.

He did have to give it to Irene, she did take well to suggestion. True, she had chosen the Anglicized version of Hamish, but she had taken his words to heart. He felt a nauseous twist of jealousy deep in his stomach at he thought of her, but he dutifully pressed it down. There was no use being jealous of a dead woman over a dead man.

He began to hear impatient fussing from the living room and he grinned in spite of himself. He tested the milk against the inside of his wrist, pushing up the sleeves of his jumper before tossing a tea towel over his shoulder.

"Coming, don't get in a snit," John called through the flat, and for the briefest of moments he allowed himself to think of Sherlock.

When he lifted James from the pram, hissing through his teeth as he fed him the bottle and rocked him gently, the ache of his loneliness lifted, just barely.

Though he would have to rethink the name. Come up with a nickname more suitable. James brought up memories of a darkened pool and a windswept rooftop.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was onto John every time she saw him to let her babysit to give him a day off, but John was hesitant. He had no real reason to be, but he would very nearly have a panic attack if Jack was ever out of his sight for more than twenty minutes at a time. He knew it wasn't the healthiest of situations, but Jack seemed to be just as distressed to be away from John, so John accepted Mycroft's financial support and Sarah's offer of paternity leave and stayed at 221B with Jack exclusively.

The pram had stayed in the living room for afternoon naps, but at night John brought Jack to his room and slept, bracketing the child between his own body and the wall. He had been hesitant that it would be dangerous, what with his nightmares, but he hadn't had a single episode since Jack's arrival. If he started to feel the tingling dread of a pending dream he would focus on the soft, snuffling breath of the tiny body laying next to him until he could move his limbs again, opening his eyes as he rolled over to wrap an arm around Jack. Sometimes he would smooth his fingers over the baby's relaxed brow, sometimes he would rest a hand on the baby's stomach as it rose and fell with his breaths, and sometimes he would slide a single finger into Jack's tiny fist and smile when his little fingers would tighten instinctively as he shifted in sleep.

He hadn't had a single nightmare, and Jack was growing like a weed.

When Jack was six months old he started to crawl, which was a bit early according to most of the articles John had read on the internet, but John wasn't surprised. He just started putting things up on higher shelves and baby-proofed the flat to the best of his abilities.

Jack was obsessed with John's mobile, and on more than one occasion he'd get texts from people in response to the random key smashing sent by Jack. Lestrade and Molly were the most common recipients, but on more than one occasion he would receive texts from Mycroft that were just as unintelligible as the ones unintentionally sent by Jack. The most recent conversation was particularly amusing.

_JACK HAS DOCTOR APPT TOMORROW, 14:30. THEY NEED FAMILY HISTORY FOR HIS RECORDS._

_I have sent along what I could find about Miss Adler. The Holmes family medical history is irrelevant. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_NOT TRUE. SHERLOCK'S HIS FATHER._

_Not true. No matter how much Miss Adler wished it were so. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_YOU SURE, THEN._

_Quite sure, Doctor Watson. If the child was, indeed, my brother's progeny, he would be must less well-mannered. Trust that I know from a vast amount of experience in trying to get a stubborn and exhausted child to sleep against his will. How something so small can be so unbearably loud has escaped me from the moment Sherlock entered the world. I'm sure you've shared some of the same sentiments about my brother. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_DOCTOR'S APPT. WENT WELL. EVERYTHING IS ON TRACK. AND JACK SLEEPS LIKE A ROCK, SO DEFINITELY HARD TO SEE MUCH RESEMBLANCE THERE. HE IS ALWAYS CAUSING TROUBLE THOUGH..._

_Lots of people without the name Holmes cause trouble, Doctor Watson. Although we do tend to cause a bit more than the average person, I would admit. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

___ .aeeafeadddrfrrrrrrk.._...dd

_SORRY, JACK CHEWING ON THE MOBILE._

_What is it about your mobile that is so appealing, Doctor Watson? _

_And do pass along this message to young James: kkkkkjdjasdfch...sworj_

_He'll understand. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

He had saved Mycroft's last text to his mobile's memory card before sliding it back into his pocket, chuckling to himself as he watched Jack chew on a stuffed rabbit that Mrs. Hudson had gifted him. "All right Jack, your Uncle Mycroft is just as barmy as you are. Do you have some sort of secret code that only you two know, then? I bet your...I bet Sherlock could figure it out."

Jack squealed and let the rabbit fall out of his mouth, crawling off of the blanket spread out in the floor over to John, his brow furrowed in concentration. John scooted forward a bit and held out his arms, and Jack's picked up his pace and was panting with excitement. John laughed again, and Jack fisted his hands in the leg of his trousers and tried to pull himself up.

"Come here you," John grumbled, sweeping Jack up into his arms and burying his face in the soft crook of his neck, pressing kiss after kiss there as Jack giggled. "Who's a gorgeous man?" he said, sliding his hands down the boy's back, tickling his sides.

Jack pulled the sleeve of John's jumper into his mouth and he started to suck, and John kicked up his legs on the coffee table, settling in for a nap. Jack was asleep within minutes, and John flipped on the telly, keeping the volume down very low. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, but he ignored it.

It was nap time, and the rest of the world could wait.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure you don't want to come, Mrs. H? It should be a laugh," John asked as he put on his knapsack, watching Mrs. Hudson tie up the laces on Jack's little trainers. John didn't get the point of putting shoes on a child that couldn't walk, but John didn't say anything. Mrs. Hudson took too much pleasure in buying little outfits and dressing Jack up like a 'little old man, like you, John dear'. He'd even noticed a few little jumpers added to Jack's wardrobe that looked just like ones that John himself frequently wore.

Mrs. Hudson tutted, dropping a newsboy cap on Jack's head, which he promptly tossed away. "Oh John dear, I would love to, but my bad hip, you know. You have fun at the zoo though, you'll have to tell me which animals are his favourite. I always favoured the elephants, myself."

"And I'm sure the elephants favoured you," John chuckled, pulling a collapsible push chair out of the closet and hooking it over his arm. "I think we're all set. Do you mind carrying him down to the car for me, Mrs. H?"

She picked up Jack without hesitation, propping him up on her good hip as Jack chattered away at her in gibberish and she responded to each outburst like she understood him perfectly. John grabbed his keys off the hook he finally installed by the door to keep them from disappearing into grabby little hands and double-checked his pockets to make sure he had his mobile.

He bounded down the stairs and out into the morning sun, standing by Mrs. Hudson as Anthea bundled Jack into the car seat that had become a permanent fixture in this particular car in Mycroft's seemingly endless fleet. Jack was still chattering when Anthea finished and stepped aside to allow John to climb in the car. He pressed a kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek and climbed in, tossing his knapsack in the seat opposite him. When Anthea climbed in the car she sat across from Jack. She had her mobile back in her hand but her eyes were, more often than not, trained on the baby.

John watched her carefully as they re-entered traffic, and finally he couldn't hold in the question that had been buzzing about in his brain like a particularly perturbed bee. "Why does Mycroft care so much, if this child isn't Sherlock's? He has no reason to help."

Anthea's eyes artfully returned to her Blackberry. "Neither do you. Why do you care so much?"

John let out an annoyed huff. "Obviously Irene wanted Sherlock to raise Jack. God knows why, he'd have left him behind at every crime scene he visited. But it's what Irene wanted. She had to have known what...what happened. Even in America she would have known about Sherlock. So maybe I was the next best thing? It's not like I had anything better on, not really."

Anthea sighed, and laid her phone in her lap. "You are very loyal very quickly, Dr. Watson," she said, and glanced toward the child. "You lost your flatmate. Mycroft Holmes lost his little brother. You were both alone, weren't you? And now you aren't. If Mycroft wants to help you, it's his recognition of that fact. Allow him this. He needs this child almost as much as you do." Her phone buzzed and she picked it back up, frantically beginning to type. "And if you ever tell him I said any of that, I will make sure Jack is well taken care of when you mysteriously disappear."

Jack squealed and reached for Anthea's mobile, and John fished a dummy phone out of his knapsack, handing it over to him. He bit it once, frowned down at it, and threw it against the car window. John rolled his eyes and handed over his own mobile, wondering who would be getting the nonsense text message this time. "I won't tell a soul," John replied as he watched London pass by through the window.

* * *

When they arrived at the zoo Molly was there to greet them, dressed down in a gauzy skirt and a cardigan that was decorated with cats. Anthea unloaded Jack from the car and, despite John's protests, fastened him into the push chair. John pretended not to notice when she pressed a kiss to his forehead and straightened up. "Do let Mycroft know when you'll be needing the car to go home."

"Thanks Anthea," John said with a small smile, and she nodded curtly before climbing back into the car.

Molly was on her knees in front of the push chair, pressing kisses to Jack's hands and cooing at him in a voice that was quite possibly reserved for her cats. John hefted the knapsack over his good shoulder and laughed, and she straightened and blushed a bit. "Sorry John, couldn't resist. He's getting so big, you really should bring him by the morgue more often. Or...erm, sorry, probably not. Not the best place for a baby, although I've seen loads. Oh god, I'm sorry, I'll just..." she trailed off, her cheeks hot. "The zoo! I haven't been here in ages! I always loved the big cats!"

John snorted and shook his head. "Of course you did, Molly. Where's Greg? He said he'd be here."

"Haven't seen him," Molly said. "I can ring him, if you like? You have his number?"

"There's no need, I'm here," Lestrade called, jogging a few steps towards them. "Got caught up in a bloody mess, Dimmock wouldn't let me off the phone, on me day off, no less. The Yard seems to fall apart if I'm not there, I swear. Starting to think Sherlock was right about that lot." He smiled widely, his aviator sunglasses obscuring the crinkles of skin around his eyes. He was dressed down in dark jeans and a heather grey t-shirt, and John couldn't help but notice Molly's eyes lingering over the point that the thin silver chain Greg wore around his neck disappeared into the collar of his shirt.

"No worries Greg, we just got here ourselves," John said, grinning as he looked from Molly to Greg. Molly was blushing again.

"Hello again, DI Lestrade," Molly said, and Greg waved a hand in the air.

"Greg, please. Good to see you again, Miss Hooper."

"Oh, it's Molly. Please. Greg and Molly."

John cleared his throat and tried to hide his grin. "Glad we've got that sorted. Shall we, then?"

And he led the way into the zoo, pushing a chattering Jack in front of him. Molly asked where they should start, and Greg said, "You know, I've always fancied the tigers..."

* * *

Jack was unimpressed by the tigers, though Greg and Molly chatted away about how 'majestic' (Molly's description) and how 'fucking fierce' (Greg's description) they were.

Jack was unimpressed by the elephants, who looked like big ugly rocks to John even after Molly rattled off fact after fact to demonstrate how intelligent they were. She said they were the only other species, besides humans, who mourn their dead. Silence fell in the group until Greg said, "Let's check out the zebras, eh? They're always good for a laugh."

Jack was unimpressed by the zebras. And giraffes. He had kicked up squealing again in the reptile house and the aviary, the first of which Molly refused to go into ("I hate reptiles, they've got such vacant eyes, like corpses'), and the latter of which Greg refused to enter ("I fucking despise birds. Never met a bird who didn't shit on me"). The aquarium was cool and dark, and Jack had gone quiet and had fallen asleep after having a bottle. John waved Greg and Molly off and stayed in the aquarium for a while, tucked up in a quiet corner as he let Jack nap.

After the nap they visited John's favourite part of the zoo- the aquatic animal area. They watched penguins dive into the water, seals flip and bark, and Jack's eyes were bright as he tried to track all the movements the animals made. The walrus was a bit of a put-off, but next...John hefted Jack out of the push chair and onto his hip. Jack was squirming and laughing and clapping his hands as the otters shot through the water like bullets. They flipped and twisted and shook the water from their fur when they surfaced, only to dive down into the depths of the pool again. They seemed to never stop moving, their sleek bodies propelling them through the water with only the slightest amount of effort.

"That's an otter, Jack," John said, and Jack pressed his little hand against the glass. "Otter. Can you say otter?"

But Jack just squealed.

John had always favoured the otters, and Jack did too.


	4. Chapter 4

When Jack began speaking, it was in full sentences. John was in the kitchen, cleaning up after lunch while Mrs. Hudson watched Jack tear about the living room as he panted like a dog.

"John dear, you should get him a puppy, he'd love to have a dog," Mrs. Hudson called to John as she waved a stuffed dog in Jack's direction. "Plus it's too quiet up here without Sherlock stomping around, blowing things up and screeching on that violin at all hours. A dog would liven things up a bit, give Jack something to play with."

"Jack's enough to run after around the flat, I don't need a dog to worry about as well," John groaned, joining them in the living room. "And there's no telling what sort of experiments of Sherlock's a dog would drag out of hiding. You should get a dog, Mrs. H., it would give you some company and Jack could visit."

Mrs. Hudson nodded to herself. "It could be the family dog. Come and go between my flat and yours as it pleases," she said as she watched Jack collapse against John's legs, wrapping his little arms about John's knees. "Sherlock would have a field day experimenting with the dog."

Jack opened his mouth and the ear of the stuffed puppy fell out of his mouth. "Dog Daddy. Please?"

Mrs. Hudson pressed her hand over her mouth and her eyes misted over.

John laughed incredulously, kneeling down to pick up Jack. "You manipulative little bugger. You've just been listening, saving up words and biding your time, haven't you? You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

Jack laughed as John tickled him gently. "Now how can we say no to that?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll do some calling around, Mrs. Turner next door told me she knew of someone who had some pups for sale. I'm sure she could get us a deal."

John sighed, and Jack mimicked the sound. John raised an eyebrow at the boy, and Jack just smiled widely at him. "Sneaky bugger," John muttered, bouncing Jack in his arms a bit. "Don't buy a dog, we should adopt one. I'm pretty good at gathering strays."

"So am I," Mrs. Hudson said with a kind smile, standing up and patting John on the shoulder. "I'll do some looking, dear. Never fear, I'll find us the perfect dog."

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson returned from the pet adoption centre, she hadn't found the perfect dog. She had made it as far as the front desk and was promptly distracted by a long, thin black and white kitten with huge orange eyes and a screeching meow that sounded a bit like a tortured violin.

The kitten was perched on the shoulder of the receptionist, watching the cursor of the computer as she typed. His little plastic collar proclaimed his name was Black and White, and Mrs. Hudson had nodded, paid the adoption fee, and took the kitten home.

John had looked at the small cardboard carrier, sighed, and waved Jack over to Mrs. Hudson. "Puppy puppy puppy..." Jack squealed, and he reached for the kitten as soon as Mrs. Hudson had the box opened. "Puppy!"

"A cat?" John sighed, rolling his eyes as he sat on the couch. "At least this one has hair."

"I couldn't help myself, he reminded me too much of our Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said as Jack hefted the kitten up gracelessly. "And Puppy is as good of a name as any. Puppy the cat. Darling."

John looked at the cat, its orange eyes half-closed as Jack pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of the its head. The cat was limp and it looked bored. John grinned. "Puppy, I apologize in advance."

That night John could hear the cat meowing from Mrs. Hudson's flat, and it was close enough to the sound of a tortured violin that John fell asleep with wet eyes, Jack stretched out like a starfish next to him.

He woke up with the cat, renamed Puppy, sitting on his chest, staring at him intently. John knew that he had locked up the flat before going to bed and the cat had been in Mrs. Hudson's flat, so he had no idea how exactly Puppy had gotten in. The cat yawned and stretched languidly, and for just a second John missed Sherlock so much he forgot to breathe. The cat jumped down from the bed, slinking out of the room.

Mrs. Hudson brought up a package that had been left on the doorstep. When John opened it to find a dark blue collar with a tag that read _'If found, please return this feline to Jack Holmes of 221B Baker Street', _he could only blame Mycroft.

* * *

"Remove this cat from my person," Mycroft said, his tone uneasy as he pressed his hands to his chest. "Anthea, the cat please."

Anthea rolled her eyes and suppressed her laugh as she reached out, lifting the cat from Mycroft's lap. Puppy stared at Mycroft, clearly unimpressed, and James rushed over to Anthea to take the cat from her. "Silly Puppy," he squealed, chasing after Puppy as he thundered off into the kitchen, screeching out a meow that Jack echoed.

John handed tea to Anthea then to Mycroft before sitting down on the arm of the couch, where he could still keep an eye on Jack. Mycroft brushed off his trouser legs before he crossed his legs. "A cat John? Really?" Mycroft chided, shaking his head a bit. "A rather pale imitation, don't you think?"

John sighed. "It's Mrs. Hudson's cat, he just breaks into the flat when he's bored, I suppose. She went in for a dog and came back with Puppy the cat. Take it up with her."

Mycroft frowned disapprovingly. "Puppy?"

Anthea set aside her tea and pulled out her mobile. "Oh hush Mycroft, obviously Jack named the cat. If Mrs. Hudson had he would have been named Sherlock, and John obviously would have rather had a dog."

"Stop attempting to deduce the events of the last few weeks Anthea, your abilities are woefully inadequate," Mycroft snapped, but Anthea chuckled to herself. "Even if you are right on all counts."

"Yes sir," she said with a smirk towards John.

Mycroft sighed deeply, sipping on his own tea with a wrinkled brow. "Doctor Watson, I do have to enquire about the moniker you have now saddled the child with. What exactly is wrong with the name Miss Adler bestowed on him? Is it purely the Moriarty connection that bothers you?"

John felt his cheeks burn. "It's silly. I mean...I suggested my middle name to Irene and Sherlock for a baby name, and James is the English version of it. It's strange to be yelling a variation of your own name around, so I wanted to come up with a nickname for him."

"Why Jack?" Mycroft asked as Jack wandered back into the living room, running on tiptoe. He threw himself against Mycroft's legs and the man patted his back gently. Anthea's smirk widened.

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out," John admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "Sherlock wanted to be a pirate, and I rather got him obsessed with _Pirates of the Caribbean_ after you told me that. He hated most of it, but he was amused by Captain Jack Sparrow. Said he was a fascinating character study. Pop culture references, Sherlock would be deeply ashamed of me."

Mycroft hefted Jack into his lap, smoothing his hand through the boy's dark, downy hair. "I highly doubt that. Sherlock always abhorred nicknames, mostly because I insisted on calling him Sherly for years, but I do think he would approve of this particular variation. Most likely because you were the instigator of said variation."

"Uncle Crofty, Puppy no like you," Jack piped in, pulling on Mycroft's tie gently to get his attention.

Mycroft sighed deeply, as if he had just learned of a pending war between England and France. "Well," Mycroft began, smoothing his tie back into place. "I can't say that I am particularly fond of _Puppy_ either. I agree with John in that you should have gotten a dog. A nice, loyal, respectable dog."

"Puppy's nice, really nice, right Daddy?" Jack asked as he turned to John, who was currently trying to wrestle the toe of his sock out of Puppy's claws.

The look of triumph on Mycroft's face was unnerving, and John finally succeeded in shooing the cat back down the stairs towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Puppy is nice sometimes, Jack. Sometimes Puppy is superbly annoying." It was then that Puppy's meows began echoing through the building.

"He's singing, 'Thea, he's singing! Listen! Puppy can sing!" Jack crowed, bouncing in Mycroft's lap as Anthea climbed to her feet, tucking her phone back into her breast pocket.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" she said with a kind smile. "Sir, we should be going. Your meeting."

"Right," Mycroft said, lifting Jack off his lap and putting him on the floor. He picked up his umbrella and followed Anthea to the door. "Do try to make sure young Jack doesn't endeavour to become a pirate when he gets older. We know what path that career choice ultimately leads to, don't we?"

John held out his arms for Jack with a small, sad smile. "There is a vacancy in the World's Only Consulting Detective position, isn't there? Maybe I have the right pirate for the job." Mycroft scoffed, and John pressed on. "Thank you for sending the collar, by the way. You really are occasionally a sentimental git."

Mycroft's look of confusion was genuine, and he glanced to Anthea, who shrugged, shaking her head. "I didn't send a collar for that...vermin."

"Someone did. A package was left overnight a few weeks ago." John pursed his lips, wrinkling his brow as he frowned.

Mycroft's face betrayed nothing, and he pulled his mobile from his pocket. "I see. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson."

John's arms tightened around Jack, who had taken to singing along with Puppy.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack had nearly outgrown the pram, so John had retired it and had taken to having Jack nap on the unused couch, taking up the hollow left by Sherlock's violent flopping. John would sit in his chair, reading or texting Greg or watching the telly on low or trying to finish a crossword or just watching Jack sleep.

When John watched him sleep, he tried to find evidence of Sherlock in the boy's face. As hard as he looked, he could find nothing. He had Irene's chin and small mouth. Hair that was fine and wavy and dark brown. Sherlock's face had been a rather violent mish-mash of unusual features, and John detected none of them on Jack.

John would feel relieved initially, then would feel an aching and occasionally overwhelming want to see Sherlock's face again. To watch understanding dawning in those bright blue, (or were they green, John was never sure), eyes. To witness the casual grace of his every move, to follow in the wake of Sherlock Holmes as they faced the battlefield together. He even missed the turned up collar and the cheekbones. Damn the man.

So when John returned to the living room with a cup of tea and a saucer of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up to find Sherlock Holmes standing rather awkwardly by the window, John was convinced he had finally gone round the bend. That all his wishing and pining and hoping to see Sherlock again had caused him to have a rather realistic hallucination of the man. He even had the fucking turned up collar and the cheekbones and the kaleidoscope eyes and John was really rather certain he had died and was being punished for all his sins.

John carefully set down the tea and biscuits, closed his eyes, and took in a few deep puffs of air, listening to Jack's breaths as they drifted from the sofa. He could feel his limbs, he could feel his own heart beating, so why wasn't he waking up? "He's not real, John," he whispered fiercely to himself, clenching and unclenching his hands. "He's not real, wake the fuck up, none of this is real..."

"John," Sherlock said, his tone exasperated. John's eyes shot open and suddenly, violently, he was angry. Sherlock noted the change and took a step backwards, his eyes instantly finding all possible escape routes. "I can assure you that you aren't hallucinating," Sherlock said quickly, his voice too-loud for Baker Street. John winced and Sherlock continued, pitching his voice lower. "I regret not having been able to return sooner, but surely you must understand..."

"Shut up," John hissed, his entire body tense and tight. Jack sleeping on the sofa was the only thing that kept him from throttling Sherlock or screaming at Sherlock or pushing Sherlock out of the window. Instead he canted his head towards the staircase that led to his room. "Upstairs. Now. I don't want to wake him up."

"Ah yes, Miss Adler's child," Sherlock said, looking about the room. He frowned a bit when he discovered Jack sleeping in his place on the sofa, and he peered over the back with an unreadable expression on his face. "He bears an uncanny resemblance to his father, don't you agree?"

"Upstairs Sherlock," John bit out through clenched teeth, and John waited until Sherlock started up the stairs rather reluctantly before following a few steps behind. John shut the door carefully and Sherlock hovered by John's closet, his hands resting on his narrow hips.

"Go on then, lecture me about how I cannot begin to understand the grief you experienced in my absence," Sherlock said breathlessly, his eyes wide and face eerily still. "Tell me about everyone who loved me and missed me and mourned my death, John. You feel so much, too much, so do inform me about everything I missed. Teach me the ways of man, John Watson, if you think yourself able."

"You..." John hissed before taking a very deep breath. He could feel his face heating up with pent-up anger, and by god he wanted to hit Sherlock right in his emotionless fucking face. So he did. Three times. "You fucking wanker, goading me like that. You wanted me to hit you?"

"You had to," Sherlock said, blinking a tear from the eye that took the brunt of the final blow. "An apology from me would have been self-indulgent and frankly useless. I do not deserve nor do I want your forgiveness. I would rather you punch me, get it out the way that most males are comfortable airing their grievances, and skip all the useless emotional dialogue. I thought you would appreciate the sentiment. Or equivalent."

"Shut up or I'll hit you again," John snapped, shaking his left hand. His knuckles ached. "Fuck, Sherlock. I never...I never thought I'd see you again."

Sherlock sighed and wiped a bit of blood from his lip with the tips of his fingers. "Don't tell me you thought I was really dead, John, or I shall have to rethink my opinions of your intelligence. I told you it was a magic trick! I told you in so many words!"

John shook his head and laughed to himself. "I forgot how much of an irritating berk you are. Sherlock, I watched you step off the edge of a bloody building. Forgive me if I second guessed you for a while there."

"It had to be done," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "Surely Mycroft told you. I'm sure he figured everything out. He didn't have a sniper trained on his bloody head, and he gave Moriarty enough information that I'm sure he figured out the plan rather quickly. He's helping you out of guilt, if you hadn't deduced that for yourself. He thinks he was just as responsible for my death as Moriarty. I have been enjoying his anguish."

"You are a complete bastard," John yelled before he remembered the sleeping child downstairs. He swung to hit Sherlock a fourth time but Sherlock grabbed his wrist, obviously done with the violence portion of their discussion. John jerked his arm away with some venom but went for Sherlock again, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of John's head and allowed himself to be held. John let out a choked sob of relief before he pressed his lips closed tightly, as tightly as he had his eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears inside. He was not going to cry into Sherlock's shirt- he refused. He was a doctor, damn it, and a bloody soldier. He wasn't going to...but he was. Crying. Rather messily.

Sherlock stiffened a bit and extricated himself from the embrace as tactfully as Sherlock Holmes was capable. "I am done now, John. The case is over. Moriarty's web is destroyed, I can return to Baker Street, and I fancy Chinese. Dinner?"

John was speechless as he watched Sherlock inspect the damp spot on the front of his shirt with disapproval. "Just...just like that, then?"

"Like what?" Sherlock scoffed, not looking up. "We can resume our life. The hiatus is over. I'm back."

John shook his head, his eyes wide in disbelief. "You do realize that time didn't stop just because you were away, don't you? You noticed there was a child downstairs. He's nearly four years old. He's yours, Sherlock. That's a life that wasn't here before you stepped off a bloody building. A lot has changed."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Change is vastly overrated, John. Now everything can change back. We'll just have to...plan accordingly. To account for Miss Adler's...gift."

"He's a child not a throw rug, Sherlock!" John snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's not just Irene's. Your name is on the bloody birth certificate too! You're his father!"

Sherlock's face crumpled in distaste. "How vile. Of course I'm not the father. Irene Adler thought it would be a clever parting gift for you, as it were. A reminder. Oh, she's a clever girl, but she knew you wouldn't figure it out and I would." When John let out a huff of protest Sherlock sighed. "Oh, don't get defensive, John. Firstly, you are well aware of my intellectual superiority, and secondly she knew herself that I wasn't dead. I hardly sought her out to deliver the news. She was killed because of her knowledge of Moriarty from someone on the inside. Turned out to be Moran, but that is neither here nor there. The point is, I never had sex with her, even though she practically crawled on my lap and impaled herself on me on more than one occasion." Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Repulsive."

John sighed and massaged his temples in slow, circular motions. "Oh for fuck's sake Sherlock, just...why did she put your name as the father? As a joke?"

Sherlock's exasperation was evident. "Of course not. Because she knew you'd end up with the child! You were the one she trusted to make sure he didn't turn out a raving psychopath. Although I don't see how the preventative measures will help much, considering that both parents are certifiable."

"Sherlock," John said, his tone a clear warning.

Sherlock's eyes blew wide as he threw up his hands. "Oh honestly John, Anderson isn't even this thick. The father was James Moriarty! Obviously!"

John's mouth went dry, and he collapsed onto his bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared at the ceiling, ignoring the fact that Jack was running around him yelling "MOVE MOVE MOVE!" at the top of his lungs.

"Sherlock, for the love of my sanity will you please let Jack sit there? It's his spot," John said in a tone of voice much more suitable for the indoors. Sherlock didn't register he had even heard him, or heard Jack, or that he heard anything at all. John rolled his eyes and threw a balled up pair of socks at Sherlock's head with stunning accuracy. Only then did he sit up, frown at the entire flat, and snatch Jack out of his tantrum and into his arms briefly before he plopped the child down in his lap.

"This isn't your spot, it's mine," Sherlock said as the boy tried to squirm away from him. "You were merely using it while I was away. If you want to sit here you'll have to sit with me. If not, you'll have to sit somewhere else and cease your incessant racket. I'm trying to think, and you're being superbly annoying. Worse than John trying to be clever on his blog."

John started to protest, but stopped as he watched Jack's face collapse in thought. Sherlock released him, as he was no longer squirming, and settled back down in his thinking pose. Jack considered him, eyes narrowed, before he said, quite firmly, "_Move. Mine._"

Sherlock shook his head, not even looking at the boy. "Wrong. Mine."

Jack growled to himself, his hands in tight fists. He bounced on Sherlock's stomach, but it didn't garner a reaction. He hit Sherlock in the ribs: nothing. He crawled forward to pinch Sherlock's forearm and he didn't even flinch. With a frustrated grunt Jack looked over to John, who was finishing folding the laundry on the kitchen table, which was soon to be lost once again to science if Sherlock had any say in the matter. John just shrugged at him and said, "You've met your immovable object, Jack. You'll have to share now, won't you?"

Jack didn't much like the idea of sharing, if his shriek was any indication. Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement as he glanced down at the boy. The battle of wills devolved into a staring contest as Sherlock folded his hands together over his chest and watched the boy in earnest. Even John could see the problem-solving going on behind Jack's dark eyes; he could only imagine what all Sherlock was witnessing.

Finally, something shifted in Jack's expression. He was no longer angry, nor was he determined to retreat. Instead he yawned, threw his body down rather roughly along Sherlock's side, and flopped an arm across his face dramatically. With a little wiggle he apparently found a comfortable position, and he went to sleep.

John went upstairs to put away the laundry, and when he came back down Sherlock was watching Jack with an unreadable expression. "Congratulations, Sherlock. You've bested a toddler."

"Perhaps I did not thoroughly consider the possible outcomes of this particular confrontation," Sherlock said, looking from Jack to John almost pleadingly. "I'm trapped, as it happens."

"You're the one who refused to move," John pointed out, unhelpfully. "That is where he naps, and it's nap time. His schedule doesn't vary much. Creature of habit. And you can't move now, because that would be conceding. Which you don't do. So you are well trapped, as it happens."

"You are spectacularly useless John," Sherlock said without venom and John laughed.

"I wasn't really trying to be of use. I'm sure you had that figured out."

Sherlock's gaze was heavy on John's, but neither of them conceded. Something that John had thought was gone forever clenched in his chest, and Sherlock's lips quirked a bit in amusement. "I found myself missing you with stunning regularity, John," Sherlock said. What the words lacked in tact they made up for in sincerity. "I hadn't realized quite how much until this moment. Peculiar."

"There wasn't a moment that went by where I didn't miss you terribly," John said with a shrug. He was surprised by how even his tone was. He was stating fact, still removed from the emotions he had banished after the first four months of Sherlock's...hiatus. "But then I wouldn't let myself think about you anymore. I had this Sherlock-voice in my head telling me that mourning you was useless, sentimental, self-indulgent. So I listened to him until his voice wasn't right, because I had forgotten just exactly what your voice sounded like. Then it hurt too much to even listen to my own Sherlock-voice."

It was at this point that Sherlock looked away, dropping his gaze. He looked overwhelmed, burdened with John's experience. Jack shifted in sleep, fighting against Sherlock's bony ribcage, but Sherlock merely dropped a hand to the boy's back and patted him absentmindedly. It was his best attempt at comfort, and John smiled despite himself. It worked, and Jack settled back down.

John sat down on the corner of the coffee table, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "Does Mycroft know that Jack...is Moriarty's son? I mean..."

"Jack isn't Moriarty's son, John. Jack is your son, even if Moriarty is his biological father. Don't confuse the terms."

John sighed, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose minutely. "You know what I mean. Does Mycroft know?"

"Mycroft doesn't even know I'm here," Sherlock replied, but waved his free hand in the air. "Not officially. Although I'm sure he has plenty of CCTV evidence of the fact. I would say he doesn't even know my death was a ruse, but I doubt it. Even if he didn't know he would never admit it." Sherlock paused, glancing down at Jack. "As for the child, I do not think Mycroft would have been so helpful if he had known the truth of his origins. Not that I think we'll be able to keep that from him for much longer. At this rate he's on his way back from...I think it's Croatia this week, just to tell you that he's planned to dispose of him. Which is ridiculous, of course. You're far too attached at his point."

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you raise a child, you get attached," John said, and Sherlock's hand on Jack's back shifted slightly. "The human race sort of depends on it."

"And you care more than most," Sherlock added.

John frowned down at Jack. "You brought him here, didn't you? You went after Irene, trying to protect her, and it didn't work. You didn't get there in time." John looked back up to Sherlock, who had drawn his hands back up under his chin, steepling his fingers again. "Am I right?" Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, and John pressed on. "It's all right if you did. It would have been the logical thing to do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it would have been, John. You can stop trying to reassure me about something I may or may not have done. It doesn't matter how the child came to be in your possession, he's here now and he's not going anywhere. But we really must talk about the cat."

"The cat is Mrs. Hudson's," John chuckled, trying to keep his voice down. "You may not approve, but you can't convince her to get rid of him. And you're incredibly lucky that you don't have a cat that bears your namesake; Jack managed to name him first."

"Yes, Puppy, incredibly appropriate," Sherlock said with a little shake of his head. "I trust you received the collar I sent."

"Of course it was you," John sighed, frowning to himself for a moment. "How long have you been watching Baker Street?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his stare at the ceiling intensifying. "Tea, John."

John knew when he had been dismissed, and he set off to make tea. He still remembered how Sherlock took it.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft Holmes was visibly upset. Or the closest Mycroft had ever been to being visibly upset. He had abandoned his suit jacket and umbrella and was bracing himself against the kitchen table, taking a deep breath as Sherlock pointedly ignored him. Apparently he had something much more interesting under the lens of his microscope.

John froze in the doorway, the shopping in one hand and Jack on his hip. Mycroft tensed as Jack squirmed down from John's grip and bounded over to him, wrapping his arms around his leg. "Uncle Crofty!" Mycroft extracted himself from Jack's grip and turned to John, his face stone. Jack, undeterred, circled around Mycroft. "Are you made at Sherlock too? Everyone is mad at Sherlock."

"Mycroft is going to ask you to remove Jack from the room," Sherlock drawled, adjusting a knob on his microscope. "It's absurd, of course, and you won't do it. I must thank you for taking such pristine care of my microscope, John."

Mycroft's jaw worked for a moment as John brushed past them both to put away the shopping, Jack trailing after him. "Stop blathering on about your blasted microscope and listen to me Sherlock," he hissed, and John had never heard Mycroft so furious. "I have expressed to you how dangerous this situation is. People are going to want revenge, and you are willfully giving every one of them the ideal ammunition. It would be better for everyone involved if you just accepted what I am offering you and your doctor."

"Could you show Mycroft to the door please John?" Sherlock said lightly, tapping the counter with his fingertips impatiently. "He's being characteristically redundant, and I cannot abide his company a moment longer."

Mycroft took a deep breath, the vein over his temple throbbing. He looked very much like he could throttle Sherlock if he allowed himself to, but he never would. "I tried my very hardest to teach you how to function in society, Sherlock. I did the best that I could, accounting for our...deficiencies. I had everything at my disposal- therapists, doctors, psychologists, anything that could possibly help you- and it wasn't enough. If that child were to be examined, doctors would find similar developmental benchmarks. Do you really feel that you are capable of teaching a child that undoubtedly has antisocial personality disorder how to be a human being when you have no familial obligation to do so?"

Sherlock hands stilled, and he turned towards John. Jack was in his arms, frowning at Mycroft as he nibbled on a Jammy Dodger. "If anyone is capable of saddling Jack with a diagnosis of any sort, it is John. He's the doctor, Mycroft, as much as you'd like to think yourself one," Sherlock spat, not even glancing towards his brother. "You've plenty of experience diagnosing me with any number of illnesses to explain away your utter failure to correct my 'deficiencies', but that does not a doctor make. John, in your expert opinion, does Jack have any mental disorders that you have noticed?"

John swallowed thickly, shaking his head a bit. "No, he's developmentally advanced, but there's nothing to be concerned about. Just because...Mycroft, you can't think that he's bound to be a...to be a murdering psychopath just because of his genes. The science just doesn't support that. Millions of murder cases don't support that." He put Jack on the floor and shooed him towards the living room.

Sherlock began unrolling his sleeves with sharp precision, his eyebrows raised. "_My doctor_ seems to suggest your observations are irrelevant, Mycroft, I would suggest you heed his diagnosis. I am well aware of the fact that I am not equipped to raise a child. That's why I have John. He's been quite successful thus far. I believe that I was still refusing to talk when I was Jack's age. If you are planning on breeding, _Uncle Crofty_, I would suggest you ask John for child-rearing advice. Good day, brother mine. You've worn out your welcome, I think you can show yourself out. John really must be starting Jack's dinner."

Mycroft's face was pale. He worked his jaw, and he straightened his spine. He snatched up his jacket and shrugged it back on, his gaze level on Sherlock. "I do hope that John has better luck than I ever did. I expect that Jack will be grateful for all that John has sacrificed for his well-being."

Mycroft felt a gentle tug at his trouser leg and he looked down. Jack was holding his umbrella out for him, and Mycroft took it with a barely perceptible nod. "If you find yourself needing to fake your own death again anytime soon Sherlock, don't hesitate to contact me. I'm quite capable of making people disappear."

"Get out," Sherlock snapped, but Mycroft was all ready gone.

* * *

Jack was feeding Puppy bites of all the various foods on his plate, frowning when he didn't eat any of the tinned tomato, steamed broccoli, or bread. Jack was about to slide the rest of his fish into the floor when John finally caught on to what he was doing, taking his plate away and cleaning up the mess. "He's experimenting on the cat, Sherlock. You haven't been experimenting on Puppy in front of Jack, have you?"

"I have been trying my very hardest to forget about the cat's existence," Sherlock called from his bedroom, where he was sorting through his things.

John sighed, picked up the cat, and put him outside the door, shooing him down the stairs towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. "You do realise you can't bring anything hazardous or breakable into the flat proper. Anything that falls into those two categories must stay in your room."

John could hear Sherlock grumbling from the depths of his room. "I'll have to be rid of the bed. Would you like this one? It's larger than your current bed, maybe Jack can have yours, I'm sure we could find a way to make room for both in your room."

John wiped Jack's hands before setting him loose. He went straight for Sherlock's room, hesitating only briefly in the doorway before going inside. John followed quickly to make sure he didn't pull over any boxes on himself. "I'm not taking your bed Sherlock," John said, frowning at the stacks of files on Sherlock's obviously unused bed. "You need a bed, you can't just convert your room into a lab."

Sherlock placed his hands on his hips, frowning at the boxes stacked along the walls. "It's the logical solution. I need a lab and Jack needs a play area that isn't hazardous, at least until he's old enough to understand what can and cannot be ingested. I sleep at odd hours that tend to not overlap with when you sleep."

"You mean regularly?" John asked, but Sherlock waved him off.

"I can't see a problem with having a bed that we share. If you have an aversion to it, or are sentimentally attached to your bed, we can reconsider, but I am merely..."

"Shut up Sherlock," John sighed, and Sherlock finally looked at him. "We can move your bed to my room if you think it will help. It would be a shame to toss out a perfectly good bed."

Sherlock nodded once and clapped his hands together. "Right. I'll have to text Lestrade, tell him I'm indisposed for at least a week. We really should get started as soon as possible."

"Your room is messy," Jack added, peering balefully at the papers covering the bed. "And it smells funny."

"It smells like science," Sherlock said with a wild grin. "Go make room, John. If I can get the bed out of here I can spend the night unpacking boxes."

"Jack, if I put in a movie will you sit quietly and watch it while I help Sherlock carry out his ridiculous plan?"

Jack pressed his hands together, his grin eerily like Sherlock's. "Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

"Bambi it is," John said, and Jack tore out of Sherlock's room towards the living room.

"What sort of burgeoning psychopath is a fan of woodland creatures?" John chuckled before following.

"They do tend to favour Machiavelli," Sherlock added, transferring the files to the floor. "At least at that age."


	8. Chapter 8

It didn't take Sherlock long to abandon his determination to set up his lab without taking any cases from Lestrade. All it took was two days and a text about a ribcage found in Battersea and Sherlock was off, sweeping Jack into his arms briefly to press a kiss to his head before he pulled on his great coat. "Case, John. Ribcages! Spinal cord still attached, Lestrade said. It shan't take long."

"You aren't leaving me behind because you know I'll finish setting up your equipment whilst you're away, are you?" John asked as he watched Sherlock pocket his mobile and drape his scarf around his neck. "Because I'll have to echo Mrs. Hudson and say I'm not your housekeeper. Or your lab assistant."

"You're much more than a lab assistant," Sherlock scoffed, clapping his hands together. Jack did the same, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth raised in amusement. "Lab partner, surely. I'll bring something home for supper."

"Rice!" Jack screeched, jumping up and down.

"Excellent choice," Sherlock agreed before bounding down the stairs.

John's gaze lingered on the entrance to Sherlock's room. It was dark and unbearably messy, and John sighed. "Come on Jack, want to help clean Sherlock's room?"

"Scary in there," Jack said even as he bounced over to the door. "Sherlock's got a pig in a jar. I saw it. A baby pig. I named him Wiggle."

"We'll just gather up the empty boxes," John said warily as Jack tiptoed into the room. John wasn't far behind. "If you see anything glass don't touch, remember? Can you pick up all the newspaper and put it in this bin bag?"

Jack started counting each piece of newspaper he picked up, but when he reached forty he began making up numbers, so he had gone from having forty to having 'Splorteen, Beeboop, Fifty-forty five, Sleventh, Two-Two Wiggle's Nose,' and so forth. John was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes, and between the two of them they had uncovered the majority of the open floor space.

Sherlock's room was rather well-suited to be converted into a lab, John had to admit. It was well ventilated and was smaller than John's room. Besides the wardrobe in the corner, it was relatively free of personal effects, save for the various souvenirs Sherlock has nicked from various cases. John grinned when he saw the heavy crystal ashtray that had come from Buckingham Palace perched on top of an open box. It was filled with teeth, and John laughed in spite of himself.

"We do good work," John said as he took the bin bag from Jack, tying the top and setting it in the corner.

Jack brushed his hands off and placed his hands on his hips, like he'd seen John do a million times after finishing a particularly messy task. "Still smells funny in here," he said after a moment's consideration.

"It will never stop smelling funny in here," John agreed, ushering Jack out of the room before pulling the door closed. "What shall we do until Sherlock comes back with rice, then?"

Jack ran over to the sofa and dived under it, pulling out a well-worn board game box. "Operation! I can do surgery!"

"God help anyone who ends up with you as a surgeon," John muttered to himself, but laid out on the floor as Jack pulled out the game and began loading in the 'organs', his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

"You're mad 'cause I beat you, Daddy, that's all," Jack said in a sing-song sort of voice, dropping in the wishbone with flourish. "Surgery!"

As Jack pulled out piece after piece with what could only be described as surgical precision, John couldn't help but point out bitterly that none of these particular organs were covered in medical school. It did nothing to quell Jack's victory lap about the flat when he beat John yet again, and he didn't stop running around like a lunatic until Sherlock came in bearing take away Chinese.

"What have you done?" Sherlock asked as he opened the door to his room, his tone bordering on accusatory.

John shrugged as he spooned out fried rice onto three plates. "We just cleaned up a bit. I was thinking you might need a wall of shelves where you could put your case memorabilia and your other various...experiments. It would be best to have them off the floor, in the off chance Jack breaks in. He's all ready quite taken with your pickled specimens."

"Yes, I have been thoroughly informed of the adventures of Wiggle. Maybe Jack will begin his own blog, I'm sure he could come up with puns to rival your own, given the right inspiration."

John cut up bits of sweet and sour chicken and dropped them on Jack's plate before sliding it over to him. Jack dug in without preamble, rice sticking to his fingers. "You could also use a table. If you get the stuff I'll put it together for you, seeing as you wouldn't have the attention span to do so. And you can stop looking so smug, it's not like you manipulated me into doing it all for you. I knew exactly what you were up to."

"Just because you were aware of being manipulated doesn't negate the fact that you were, in fact manipulated, John," Sherlock said before dipping an egg roll into duck sauce with flourish. "The ribcage proved less than stimulating, only a portion of the spinal column was still intact. I did direct them to where they could find the rest of the body, that is if they managed to get there in time to save it from the beetles devouring the flesh that still remains."

"Sherlock, we're eating, less talk about flesh eating insects," John said, glancing over at Jack. He didn't seem to be listening, however, intent as he was on eating his rice one grain at a time. "So back to putting together your lab, then?" John asked as he watched Sherlock artfully pluck a bit of broccoli away from John's meal with his chopsticks.

"Uncertain. May have something better on. I should update my website and tell everyone I'm not dead, since you've failed to do so on your blog. I can only imagine the stunning flood of people who were forced to deal with their own misfortune in lieu of consulting Sherlock Holmes. How they all must have suffered in my absence."

"I'm glad to see your ego is still intact," John grumbled, snatching the remainder of Sherlock's egg roll in petty revenge. "And yet somehow, London didn't collapse without you. Funny, that."

"I was never away from London for too long," Sherlock said, without further explanation. John tensed, shaking his head a bit, but didn't press. They ate in silence for a while, Jack humming a song about rice to himself, before Sherlock said, "I may sleep tonight, if it's not too inconvenient."

John rolled his eyes. "It's never inconvenient to sleep, despite what you seem to think."

Sherlock pressed his lips in a thin line for a moment as he carefully constructed his next words. "If you aren't adverse, I would like to attempt an experiment. Of sorts. I have been finding it rather hard to sleep when there isn't some...semblance of your presence. I have this recurring dream, nightmare really, that I am looking for you everywhere and you've just disappeared. Your jumpers, your gun, everything is gone. And I can't breathe. I've found that sleeping in your room has helped in my quest to quell the issue, but only slightly. I'd like to pursue other methods of counteracting my unfortunate insomnia." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and studied John's furrowed brow. "And please refrain from psychoanalyzing me, I know precisely the anxiety that is fueling my subconscious, it needn't be discussed. I'm sure you can understand my hesitation to open up that particular line of conversation, most especially with you."

John shook his head a bit, looking more than confused. "You want to sleep. With me. In the same bed, at the same time? You're sure about this, are you? Given it a lot of thought, logical solution and all that?"

Sherlock frowned, deciding to watch Jack as he licked his hand and stuck it to his plate to gather up the remaining grains of rice. Ingenious, really. "Of course, John. It's an experiment, nothing should come of it if it fails. Or succeeds, if you take issue. I would just like to explore all variables."

"I'm not kicking Jack to the kerb for you," John said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "What do you think Jack, should we let him join up?"

Jack sucked his index finger into his mouth thoughtfully before saying, "Sherlock can't sleep by me. Nope. He has to sleep by you. He's gonna try to steal my spot!"

"I will do nothing of the sort," Sherlock scoffed, pointing a singular chopstick at the boy. "You laid claim on the spot long before I did, even if the beds have changed. I will concede to your rules, as long as John has no objections."

John's smile was small, restrained, but he shook his head. No objections.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke up with a heavy weight on his chest. He was overly warm, he couldn't feel his right arm, and something was tickling his nose. He opened his eyes and lifted his head a bit to see Jack sprawled out on his chest, his head resting over John's heart and mouth open against his shirt. His arms and legs were spread wide and had fallen off of John and onto the bed, but he was still asleep, drooling. John shifted his numb arm and found it pinned by Sherlock's head, the only point of contact between their two bodies. It appeared to John that Sherlock had deliberately manipulated his arm sometime in the night, but he had no proof. Sherlock was sleeping turned on his side facing towards John, his knees drawn up and his arms folded tightly into his chest, his head cradled in the crook of John's arm.

Slowly John pulled his arm free, flexing his fingers to try to restore the blood flow. Sherlock's eyes opened immediately, and he reached out to press a hand flat against John's ribcage, his brows furrowing as he felt the rise and fall of John's steady breathing. John's hand unwittingly found Sherlock's and he squeezed it gently before resting it on Jack's back. "How did the experiment go?" John asked, his voice still rough with sleep. "As you hypothesized?"

Sherlock's fingers curled in the fabric of John's t-shirt. "Thus far the results have been promising. More evidence is needed."

"Nightmares?"

Sherlock slipped out from under the duvet and stretched languidly. "Nonexistent. I require your company today. If I am expected to purchase furniture for my laboratory I hardly think it's fair that you get to miss out on the tedium that is shopping. Plus, I have a few contacts in Croydon I must reestablish. What do you say?"

"What about Jack? I can't bring him to any crime scenes Sherlock, that's a bit not good," John said, patting the boy's back gently.

"No crime scenes today, he'll be perfectly fine coming along. Mrs. Hudson will watch him if there are crime scenes involved in future. He may enjoy those foul Swedish meatballs they serve at Ikea, who knows." Sherlock said with a smirk. "Well, I could deduce it, but that would take all the fun out of the adventure, wouldn't it?"

John suppressed a yawn and set off carefully extracting himself from Jack. He was more successful in not waking Jack than he had been with Sherlock, and he left the boy sleeping as he made his way to the loo, Sherlock on his heels. "You're not following me to the toilet Sherlock," John grumbled and shut the door in his face.

"Don't make me beg you to come, I'm not _Lestrade_, and I refuse to beg on principle," Sherlock called through the door before he went down stairs to fish his burgundy dressing gown out of the sofa cousins.

When John had finally made it downstairs for his morning cuppa Sherlock was fully dressed and texting furiously. "We've a case, John. Room full of dead teenagers, suspected cult suicide, stupid," Sherlock said quickly, tucking his phone in his pocket. "You'll have to text Mycroft and tell him to do the shopping for us. He's probably feeling remorseful enough to relent and even have someone assemble everything for us."

John sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I can't just leave Jack, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked intensely impatient. "Mrs. Hudson has offered to babysit numerous times, she's more than willing and immensely capable of providing for his needs for a few hours. I need you with me, please get ready. I told Lestrade we'd be there within the hour."

John took another sip of his tea and Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, replied to the text, and looked back up at John incredulously. "I can't," John finally replied, his stomach twisting with anxiety.

"Please?" Sherlock may have been shamming a bit, just a bit, but it was almost unconscious. Second nature.

"I thought you didn't beg?"

Sherlock frowned. "Never. I'm asking you nicely. As a friend. Please come."

John finished his tea. "Right. Give me twenty minutes. Go get Mrs. H."

Sherlock's smile was wide and unexpected, and John couldn't help returning it in kind.

* * *

_MYCROFT_

_SHERLOCK IS IN NEED OF SHELVING AND WORK TABLES FOR A LAB. HE REQUESTED I USE YOUR APPARENT GUILT TO ACQUIRE SAID ITEMS_

_Sherlock is just as capable of going to an establishment to purchase said items as you or me, John. I would suggest he do so. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_HE SAID TO TELL YOU 'PLEASE'_

_He did not. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_YOU'RE RIGHT. I SAID PLEASE. WE ARE BUSY AND IT WON'T BE MUCH TROUBLE_

_Says you. I have much more important matters to attend to than supplying furnishings for my little brother's terrible science habit. Why you allowed him to move into your bedroom in order to convert his sleep hovel into a laboratory is beyond my imagining. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_DOES THAT MEAN YES, THEN? _

_If I supply furniture, I will be delivering it in person. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_AS LONG AS YOU LEAVE JACK ALONE. DIDN'T DESERVE LAST TIME. YOU KNOW THAT._

_My sincerest apologizes, Doctor Watson. My brother has the uncanny ability to provoke the very worst in me. I have...reconsidered my views on the matter. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

_GOOD. JACK WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU. AND ANTHEA, IF SHE'S ON._

_Someone will have to assemble the furniture. And she knows Swedish._

_Mycroft Holmes_

_MARRY HER_

_She has far better taste, I can assure you. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

* * *

"We're on our way, should be back to Baker Street within the half-hour if traffic isn't too bad. No, cooking us dinner isn't necessary, I can do it when...well thanks, then. I'll make sure he has some. Ta," John ended his call with Mrs. Hudson with a little chuckle as he lifted his hips a bit to slide his mobile back in his pocket. "She made us shepard's pie and a pear crumble. Said you'd be particularly fond of the latter. I should also probably tell you Mycroft might be paying us a visit with furniture, I think he agreed to do your dirty work for you. Maybe he feels just guilty enough."

Sherlock's legs were propped up in the seat opposite, his folded hands resting against his lips as he watched London pass through the cab window. He'd gone pensive again after leaving the crime scene behind. "You get on with my brother rather well," Sherlock said against his fingers, his brow furrowed in thought. "How do you get on with my brother? He must be better at pretending to be a normal human being than I previously thought. Or perhaps he's playing up the traits he and I share to invoke your proven emotional attachment to me. He can't have you, surely he knows this, or else..." he took a deep, surprised breath as dawning bloomed in his eyes. "Ah, I see. He could have you when I was dead. Surely there aren't many people in the world like you, John, so he let me do all the legwork and was going to snatch you up when convenient. He didn't know how bloody-minded you are, you would have never fallen for it. Would you have?" Sherlock finally looked at John for confirmation.

John, to his credit, only blinked in surprise. He cleared his throat and said, "That's...maybe the most paranoid thing I've ever heard. I don't 'get on' with your brother, he's stopped kidnapping me and he missed you as much as I did, though I can't see why. I don't trust him, not really, but he's no reason to purposefully deceive us. I'm not some sort of conduit between the Holmeses and the rest of the bloody world, I don't happen to have that superpower. I'm nothing special. The only thing special about me is you. If he likes me at all, it's because I like you. I understand you, better than anyone else does. Even him, as much as he'd be loathe to admit that."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, dropping his hands to his lap. "He can't have you John. I need you more than he does."

"I know that. I'm not going anywhere Sherlock, not now. Not when I finally have..." John shook his head, trying to find the right words. "I'm not right without you. I'm myself again. You brought me back, yeah? And I can all ready see you starting to argue, so don't even try. You did. You're not going anywhere again, not without me. And I won't go anywhere without you."

Sherlock's throat felt suddenly too-tight and he looked out the window of the cab, not really seeing anything. Street names and tube stops and construction detours flew past in the periphery of his mind, and Sherlock said "You should know..." before he stopped, hesitant. "You should know that I have similar sentiments."

John's knuckles bumped against the side of Sherlock's thigh, and his voice was warm and thick like honey when he said, "I know, Sherlock."


	10. Chapter 10

The windows of 221B were bright when John and Sherlock pulled in front of the building, and Sherlock thoughtlessly paid the cabbie and barreled out, heading straight towards the door. John thanked the driver and followed Sherlock.

The scene that met John when he stepped into the flat was one he never thought he would be privy to. Sherlock hovered by John's chair, his arms crossed defensively over his chest as he stared at Mycroft, his eyes narrowed.

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair, his umbrella leaning against his knee. Jack was snuggled in the crook of his arm, his head resting on Mycroft's chest, his attention full on the book held in Mycroft's hands. Mycroft didn't look up from the book, but his ears coloured bright red and his voice faltered as he recited the words on the page. Jack squirmed impatiently in his arms and Mycroft cleared his throat and continued: "...And sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him...and it was still hot."

"Nostalgic," Sherlock said, his voice sounding more gruff than usual as he looked down at Jack and Mycroft. "You can still recite it by memory, can't you?"

Mycroft snapped the book closed and handed it to Jack, who smiled up at Sherlock and held out the book. "Wild Things, Sherlock! Uncle Crofty brought me Wild Things. It's got your name in the front."

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft sighed, lifting Jack from his lap and placing him on the floor. Jack promptly scampered off to Sherlock's room, where it sounded like construction was taking place.

"Leave him alone Sherlock," John said with a frown as Mycroft wrapped his hand around the handle of his umbrella. "He's making a peace offering, gift horses and all that. Would you like some tea, Mycroft? I was just about to make some."

"Mrs. Hudson kept me in tea in your absence, but it seems to have run out," Mycroft said, motioning to the set up on the kitchen table. "Thank you. I appreciate your ample hospitality, John."

John filled the kettle and pulled out three clean mugs, deciding to make one for Anthea and not waste a perfectly good cup of tea on Sherlock. He would just ignore it. "Did Mrs. Hudson also keep you in biscuits, Mycroft? I do notice that only crumbs remain on the saucer," Sherlock drawled, looking far too smug than was really necessary.

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin smile. "Your son has a particular fondness for custard creams, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson knows that and sent some up. She was unaware of Anthea's own fondness, it was a happy coincidence."

"You were always more fond of Jaffa Cakes, weren't you?" Sherlock said offhandedly, shrugging out of his coat, tossing it on the sofa and turning to go into his room without another word.

John brought Mycroft his cup with a small smile and a muttered "Sorry" before going to deliver Anthea's tea. Sherlock's room was in the strange limbo of development where it was more messy than John had ever seen it, even if most of the mess was discarded packing and displaced items. Sherlock was hovering over Anthea's shoulder like an overgrown bat, and Jack was in the corner with Wiggle the Pickled Pig reading him _Where the Wild Things Are_ by memory.

"I brought you tea," John said to Anthea, holding it out to her. Her hair was pulled in a high knot and she was dressed relatively casually in a crimson jumper and black trousers. She put aside her screwdriver and took the mug from John with a slight nod. "I do hope Mycroft is paying you handsomely for this."

Sherlock scoffed, and Anthea rolled her eyes. "It would go much faster if there wasn't a Holmes standing over me telling me that the directions are unnecessary and I would be perfectly fine disregarding them."

"You could have it assembled in half the time," Sherlock said, and Anthea tensed visibly.

"Sherlock..." John sighed, massaging his temples. "Take Jack up to get ready for bed and leave Anthea alone. When she's done you can come in and put things where you want them. Until then, you aren't allowed in here."

"Jack isn't bothering me, I was complaining about the other Holmes," Anthea muttered, and Sherlock sniffed petulantly and walked over to Jack.

"Come on then, it's time for bed," Sherlock said, and the boy frowned but climbed to his feet.

"Do I have to have a bath?" Jack all but whined, tucking his book under his arm.

John sighed, and Sherlock's lips twitched. "No story if you don't have a bath."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Can Wiggle sleep with me?"

Anthea chuckled to herself and John sent her an exasperated glance. "Jack, you can't have that jar in bed with you, what if it leaks?" John asked, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Jack wasn't deterred, and Sherlock picked up the pickled pig.

"It shouldn't leak, I had it sealed," Sherlock said, and Jack bounced on his toes. "But just to be safe, the pig stays on your side table and isn't allowed in your bed. Agreed?"

Jack squealed and did a squirming happy dance. "Yes! Agreed! Did you hear that Wiggle? You get to sleep in my room!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "The pig can't hear you Jack, nor does he sleep, he's..."

"Shut up," John snapped, and uncharacteristically Sherlock minded.

Anthea put aside her tea and stood, hanging up the final shelving unit and trying to hide her smile. "I should be done fairly soon, I just have to set up your tables. If you want to help you can take out the rubbish, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ushered Jack out of the room. "I'll help," John said, but Anthea waved him off.

"Not necessary, I knew it would clear him out faster than anything. I believe Mr. Holmes wanted to speak with you," Anthea said, making quick work of the rubbish left behind.

John watched her for a moment before leaving the room, picking up his tea from the kitchen before joining Mycroft in the living room. Mycroft's tea was untouched, and John sank down in his chair, taking a long sip of his own cooling tea. "You know you can't buy our forgiveness," John said, stretching out his legs. "Although your attempt is appreciated and noted."

"It is the only way I have ever been able to garner Sherlock's forgiveness, I scarcely think I will be changing strategies at this point in our lives," Mycroft said dismissively, lifting his umbrella and studying the tip thoughtfully. "But I quickly recognized I cannot pander to you. I don't have time to deduce the proper methods, so I shall just ask. What must I do to convince you I have reconsidered my position on you raising Jack?"

John frowned at his tea, shaking his head a bit. "You don't have to convince me, Mycroft. I understand why you were concerned, I am too. But really, if there is something inside of Jack that makes him...different, then Sherlock is the most capable person I know to help him understand it. If it's possible to understand. You did the best you could, Mycroft. Sherlock's...I wouldn't say he's grateful, but he's a better person because of you. And that's what counts."

Mycroft's face betrayed no emotion. "You are mistaken," he said, looking down his nose at John. "Sherlock is a better person because you don't demand it of him as I did. You expect it of him, and when he falters you are there to set him back on the correct path. You see the good in people first and foremost, Dr. Watson. Naive of you, but essential when dealing with Sherlock. He demands an audience and I was simply a critic. People, I regret to say including myself, have seldom seen the good in him. I quickly realised I was making the same mistake with Jack as I had with Sherlock."

John stilled, every inch of him surprised by Mycroft's candid admission. The information was relayed as one would recite passages from a textbook, but the weight of Mycroft's words settled heavy in the room. John nodded, licked his lips nervously, and shifted in his chair. "Right. Well, forgiven. Sherlock's...he's being difficult, but he understands too."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "When it comes to my feelings toward Sherlock, I don't think it is ever appropriate to say that he 'understands', Dr. Watson."

Swift footsteps sounded on the staircase that lead to John's room and Jack appeared clutching a stuffed pig- a recent gift from Molly after John had informed her of Wiggle- and looking forlorn. "Sherlock says I have to say goodnight to 'Thea," he moaned, squeezing his pig tightly.

Anthea emerged from Sherlock's room with a surprisingly bright smile, burdened with rubbish as she was. "I'm all done anyway Jack, which means it's time for Mr. Holmes and I to leave." She turned to Mycroft and added, "I've already phoned a car, sir."

"Excellent," Mycroft said, and stood. John followed in suit and crossed to the door to open it for Anthea.

"Why don't you say goodnight to your uncle, and when Anthea comes back you can give her a hug as well?" John suggested.

Jack hesitated, eyeing Mycroft apprehensively. "But Sherlock said..."

"Never mind what Sherlock said, Uncle Mycroft was kind enough to bring you a new book and read it to you, remember? You may hurt his feelings if you don't say goodnight."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "It really isn't necessary John, I under-" but he was cut off when Jack threw himself bodily against Mycroft's legs, wrapping his arms around them and squeezing. He looked down at the boy's head and lowered a hand to his back, a slight quirk to his lips. "Sleep well Jack, and make sure Sherlock takes good care of his laboratory."

"I will Uncle Crofty," Jack toned before releasing him. When Anthea reappeared at the front door Jack bounded over to her, and she knelt down to envelope him in a hug, her Blackberry clutched loosely in her hand.

She smoothed down the boy's pajama top and stood, her eyes on Mycroft. "They've arrived, sir, and I have correspondence for you to review."

Mycroft nodded and hooked his umbrella over his arm. "If Sherlock requires anything else, I'm sure he won't hesitate to have you text me his requests," he said, amusement alight in his eyes.

"Thank you Mycroft," John said, ushering Jack back upstairs before seeing them out.

When John had finally changed into his usual sleep attire -a t-shirt and boxer shorts- and climbed over Sherlock into his usual place, Jack was already close to sleep, even as he curled into John's side.

Sherlock was staring at them openly, but his eyes lingered on John's face most of all. He finally said, "You had Jack bid Mycroft good night."

John sighed, closing his eyes. "He loves Mycroft. Mycroft loves him."

Sherlock shifted a bit closer to John. "You must understand, John. Your relationship with your sister isn't what anyone would consider functional."

"But she's still my sister and I love her. I don't have to like her, and I don't most of the time."

Sherlock watched John breathe and listened to Jack's soft, snuffling snores. John thought Sherlock had maybe fallen asleep, or was content with ending the conversation there, but that was not the case. "It's easy to like someone, you have control over that particular sentiment. But love..." he trailed off, turning on his side to face John as he watched the quivering shift of John's shirt caused by his gentle heartbeat. "Love is something you don't control. A person worms their way in without your permission, makes room for themselves, and refuses to leave. It's completely out of your control, isn't it? Mycroft doesn't have to be so smug about it. It's not like I can just..." he waved a hand vaguely and fell silent.

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock's face, angular and strange in the darkness. He slid his hand closer to Sherlock's, his fingers curled loosely against his palm. Sherlock stared at it, his eyes unearthly bright, and carefully laced his fingers together with John's. "Go to sleep," John whispered, and watched Sherlock until he closed his eyes.

They fell asleep with their hands intertwined.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock could feel eyes on him. He knew John had stepped out for groceries and had left Jack in the living room watching _Charlotte's Web_ with Wiggle and the stuffed pig Jack had dubbed Charlotte, despite John gently explaining that the pig in the film was named Wilbur. Jack insisted that because his pig was a girl, her name couldn't be Wilbur and Charlotte was his favourite anyway.

Obviously Jack had grown bored with the film and had wandered into Sherlock's lab. Sherlock laid down his pipette and peeled off his gloves before swinging around in his chair to face the boy. Jack's arms were crossed but his face was open and he clearly wasn't surprised that Sherlock was aware of his presence. "What?" Sherlock toned, and Jack wasn't deterred.

"Bored," Jack sighed, and Sherlock smirked. Jack tapped his fingers against the closest shelf and wandered closer to Sherlock. "Can I help you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Finished. You aren't supposed to be in here without putting on your equipment. John would have my head, you know."

Jack huffed, wrinkling his nose. "I don't like it, and you aren't exploding anything. Come play with me and Dad won't be mad that you let me come in here."

Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him and quirked a brow. "Are you blackmailing me?" Sherlock asked with a low chuckle. Jack frowned, clearly unfamiliar with the word, but he shrugged. "Well played," Sherlock said, and Jack's grin was bright when Sherlock finally sighed and stood.

"I don't play," Sherlock said as he followed Jack into the sitting room, where he had left Charlotte and Wiggle sitting side by side on the sofa in front of the television. "You'll have to think of something else for us to do, you realise."

Jack frowned and looked around the room, his hands on his hips. He finally seemed to have an idea and he scurried over to John's desk, where his laptop sat. "Tell me a story Dad wrote about you," he demanded, pressing his hands together as he resisted picking up John's computer, as he had been expressly forbidden. "He writes good stories."

Sherlock sighed, and crossed over to the desk and snatched up the computer. "I take good cases, more like. He just writes down what happens. It's all true- they aren't 'stories', they are case reports. You're just as excitable as John. I can assure you I have tried my very best to reign in John's imagination."

"Rabbit's don't glow in the dark Sherlock," Jack said slowly as he clamored up on the couch, carefully moving Wiggle and Charlotte out of the way to make room for him and Sherlock. "That's not real."

"I can assure you that Bluebell did glow in the dark," Sherlock said as he booted up John's laptop and Jack pressed into his side. "The lab had done funny things, and the rabbit glowed. Your dad didn't make that one up, he's not clever enough to come up with something that strange."

"He's clever enough," Jack argued, and frowned at the computer. "It's got a password, we can't open it."

Sherlock smirked and guessed the password in one try. "All right, which one would you like me to read, then?"

"The one with the swimming pool," Jack said, and something close to triumph crossed his face. "You said you don't play, Sherlock, so why is it called 'The Great Game'?"

"Different sort of game, one that you don't play, not really," Sherlock said, and Jack looked all the more confused. "Like a puzzle. Or chess. Something tedious with lots of rules that is only fun if you are up against someone as clever as you are."

"No one is as clever as you are," Jack said with a frown.

Sherlock smirked and cleared his throat. "It began, as everything did, with a big bang..."

* * *

When John came back, laden with groceries and looking sour- probably another row with the chip and pin machine- Sherlock was on the third read through of 'The Great Game', and Jack was on his feet, his hands clasped together tightly.

It took John longer than it should have to hear and register what Sherlock was reading, and when he heard "... It really was just a game to him. He left and Sherlock ripped the explosives off of me..." he dropped all the bags in a rush and stormed into the living room, snatching the laptop out of Sherlock's hands. He slammed it shut, dropped it back on the desk and rounded on Sherlock, his face red with fury.

"What the _hell_ are you doing, reading him that? What were you _thinking_?"

Sherlock was unfazed, and Jack cowed a bit. "He asked to be read to from your blog, and that was the entry he picked. I was doing what he asked me to do."

"He doesn't need to hear stories about Moriarty, Sherlock! For fuck's sake, you use your brain in every other capacity, why didn't you just stop and _think_ about what you were doing?" John let out a harsh breath and glanced over to Jack, whose dark eyes were wide and shining with unshed tears. The anger that was boiling in his chest bled out and he sank down in his chair, holding his arms out for Jack. The boy hesitated, but with a nod of encouragement from Sherlock he ran over to John and allowed himself to be wrapped up in a tight hug. "I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to scare you. But that night...it's still very scary to me."

Jack's voice was muffled by John's jumper. "You had a bomb, but Sherlock saved you. He thought you were the bad guy, you know."

John laughed, pressing a kiss to Jack's hair. "I know. It didn't take him long to figure out I wasn't clever enough to be the one in charge of it all."

Sherlock shot a glare at John, and Jack shook his head, determined. "No! Sherlock said the game was only fun if he was playing against someone as clever as him! You're plenty clever, Dad. As clever as Sherlock. As clever as the bad guy!" John swallowed thickly, and Jack pulled away from him with an excited smile. "You were really brave, Dad! It's a great story, and Sherlock added in bits that you didn't know because it was what he was thinking."

John sighed, bit his bottom lip for a moment as he considered Jack's face. He finally said, "Sherlock can read you stories from my blog, but none to do with that particular...bad guy. All right? He did some very bad things to Sherlock and me, and he still makes me very scared. So none of him."

"Okay," Jack all but moaned, looking over to Sherlock for support. When he didn't get any, he grumbled, "He's no good anyway. His sidekick hid the whole time and didn't help much."

"His sidekick..." Sherlock began, but John narrowed his eyes at him. "John's not my sidekick. And Moran helped quite enough."

"That's a silly name," Jack giggled, and John sank back in his chair. "So is Moriarty. Bad guys have silly names."

"Oh, and Sherlock is perfectly passable, eh?" John asked, and Jack considered it momentarily.

"Sherlock could be a bad guy, but he's too nice," Jack finally said with a decisive nod. "Everyone thinks he is a bad guy, but really he's not."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

Jack rolled his eyes as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because Dad would never be your side kick if you were a bad guy."

"Silly Sherlock," John sing-songed, and Jack tucked Charlotte the stuffed pig under his arm. "Come on Jack, come and help me put away the groceries."

John and Jack disappeared into the kitchen, chattering away about bad guys and super heroes and Sherlock's superpower of reading people's minds.

Sherlock rested a hand on Wiggle's lid, tapping his fingers against the cool metal. By the time John and Jack were done in the kitchen, he had disappeared back into his lab.

The door was locked.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg collapsed on the couch with an exaggerated sigh, taking the offered beer with a nod. "Cheers, mate. Where's Jack?"

John grinned, sinking down in his own chair, resting his bottle of beer between his thighs. "I set him up a scavenger hunt for his birthday. Hid little gifts for him to find throughout the flat. He's been working on it all afternoon while I finished decorating his cake."

"Was it Sherlock's idea?" Greg asked, propping up his feet on the coffee table with a leisurely stretch. "Sounds like something he'd come up with."

John wrinkled his nose. "Sherlock's been gone for a couple of days. I've reminded him it's Jack's birthday, but I haven't heard from him. He had a case, wouldn't tell me anything about it. He told me not to worry. You know Sherlock, he probably got sidetracked. I got Jack a present from him, just in case he forgot."

Greg sighed, taking a long drink. "Sorry, John. He's bloody clueless when it comes to this sort of thing. Should have pinned a note to his lapel in case someone came across him. They could send him back in the right direction."

John shrugged, shaking his head a bit. "The work is always the most important, right?"

Greg's gaze was unreadable and he started to say something, but Jack came thundering down the stairs wearing Sherlock's deerstalker and one of his scarves, a hand-drawn treasure map clutched in his hands. An eye patch was flipped up on his forehead so he could see properly. "Ahoy, matey!" Greg called, and Jack held up a finger as he started taking measured steps toward the kitchen, counting under his breath. "Oh, that is all too familiar," Greg muttered, taking another drink as John chuckled.

"He's decided he's a consulting pirate detective," John said, watching the boy disappear into the kitchen. "He raided Sherlock's costume wardrobe this morning. I let him choose a very special fifth birthday outfit."

"Found it!" Jack yelled from the kitchen, and John stood quickly, Greg close on his heels. The refrigerator door was open, and Jack was pointing inside with the hand he wasn't still gripping the map with. "Found the final treasure! It's a chest!"

John put down his bottle and pulled out the cake, which was carefully decorated to look like a pirate treasure chest, and set it on the counter. Jack tugged the eye patch back down over his left eye and tugged on the ends of his scarf, bouncing on his heels with excitement. There was a knock at the door and Greg ducked out to answer it. "So what do you think? Do you like your birthday cake?" John asked, his chest warm as he watched Jack carefully lay his map down next to the cake.

"It's amazing," Jack sighed, his one visible eye wide. "Thanks dad! Is it chocolate flavoured?"

"Of course," John said as he steered Jack away from the cake and into the living room, where Mycroft and Anthea had just entered. "No cake until after dinner, okay? Molly should be here any minute with Angelo's, as per your request."

"Already here," Molly chimed from the doorway, and Greg quickly put down the gift he had taken off of Anthea and crossed to take the food off of Molly. "Oh thanks Greg, you're a dear," she said, her cheeks bright with embarrassment as she pulled a small gift out of her coat and placed it on top of Mycroft's significantly larger one. "Hello everyone! Anthea, Mr. Holmes, sorry to have delayed the party, I'm sure you're terribly busy. Well, so is Greg, but he'd never stop working if someone didn't tell him to. I bet Mycroft's the same way though, isn't he Anthea?"

Anthea smiled politely as she helped Greg unpack the take away dishes. "Mr. Holmes is a very busy man, but no one tells him when he should stop working."

Mycroft very nearly rolled his eyes as he knelt down to tweak Jack's deerstalker. "Miss Hooper, I clearly don't pay Anthea to tell me when to take breaks from my work. There isn't time enough in the day to finish all I need to accomplish."

Molly's laugh was a tad on the shrill side as she distributed the wine glasses John had filled. "Yes, of course, that would be rather silly. Greg doesn't need someone to tell him to...to take a break, of course he doesn't. When you're good at something you definitely want to do...keep doing it..."

Greg finished off his beer and laid a hand on Molly's back, rubbing it consolingly. "Molly, you're doing it again. We understand what you're saying, love. Stop worrying and have some wine."

Molly smiled at Greg and took the plate he offered her. "Thanks." Greg winked at her with a winning smile, and Molly swayed a bit closer to him for a moment before she giggled again, turning to John. "Where's Sherlock?" She chirped, looking around the room before she perched on a barstool by the counter.

"Sherlock's got a case," Jack said around a mouthful of ravioli. "He didn't forget."

"Of course he didn't," Greg chimed in, leaning against the counter by Molly as Mycroft, Anthea, and John settled in at the table with Jack. "How could he forget your birthday?"

"He's never been to one," Jack said matter-of-factly, swinging his legs under the table. "He wouldn't miss it, not since he's here. He wasn't here before."

"He missed last year," John muttered, twisting a bit of pasta around his fork. "I wasn't sure what he wanted, if he wanted to be here. So I sent him away for the week. Set him up with a case that took him out of town, didn't tell him it was Jack's birthday, though I was fairly certain he all ready knew. He let me do it, though, without argument."

"In my brother's defense," Mycroft began, picking out the bits of fresh mozzarella from his salad and eating them first, "I don't think he would have returned to Baker Street if he was unsure of what he wanted. He expressed those exact feelings in no uncertain terms when he stayed with me the two days that remained of his week-long ban from Baker Street after he solved the case early."

"He stayed with _you_?" John said, raising his eyebrows in shock. "Really?"

Mycroft shrugged, spearing a tomato. "I must say it surprised me as well. I did my very best not to appear too pleased."

"As if anyone could ever really be pleased when Sherlock pays a visit," Greg added, and Molly gently elbowed him in the ribs. "What? I'm only saying that when Sherlock's around, trouble seems to follow."

"Which explains why Jack follows him around the flat like a shadow," John said, and Jack preened a bit, straightening his hat.

"Jack's not trouble," Molly cooed, and Jack scowled, obviously offended.

"Am so!" he argued, and then quickly looked around the flat. "Where's Mrs. Hudson? She's missing the party!"

John frowned as well. "I don't know. I'll go down and check on her, shall I? Surely she hasn't forgotten." Jack climbed out of his chair and went over to the modest pile of gifts, and John sighed. "No opening until I'm back with Mrs. H., all right? Finish you dinner and try to guilt someone into playing Operation with you, I'm tired of losing. Molly has steady hands, she might be your best opponent."

Jack glanced longingly at the presents but pulled the board game out from under the sofa. John bounded down the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. "Coming!" she trilled from inside, and the door was thrown open quickly. "John dear! You're supposed to be upstairs at the party!"

"So are you," John countered with a small smile. "What's keeping you? If you don't come up soon Jack and Greg are going to eat all the ravioli."

Mrs. Hudson flushed and pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, I'll...I'll be up soon, I just have some...some things to..."

John narrowed his eyes, looking over her shoulder into the flat. He pitched his voice low, leaning a bit closer to her. "Is there someone in the flat? Nod if there is. I'll text Greg and he can come down and help."

Mrs. Hudson's laugh was bordering on frantic, and she shook her head. "Oh no John, it's nothing so serious. I'm perfectly fine, dear, I've just been sworn to secrecy by Sherlock. Oh, probably shouldn't have told you that, even. He'll be so cross."

"What has he done?" John groaned, ruffling his hair.

"Mrs. Hudson I no longer require your assistance, you can go upstairs," came Sherlock's voice from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, and he appeared shortly after. As soon as he saw John he stilled, his eyes wide. "Ah, hello John. Why are you here?"

John felt anger boil in his stomach. "And what the hell are you doing here? I thought you had a case! It's Jack's birthday and you're down here doing what, exactly?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "None of your business. Take Mrs. Hudson upstairs."

Mrs. Hudson patted John's arm as she walked past. "I'm going to go on up, dear. Let you two talk, and you can help Sherlock."

John scoffed. "He obviously doesn't want my help."

Mrs. Hudson tutted but left without another word. Sherlock had taken up pacing, his hands on his hips. "John, would you just...this isn't want you think. You're angry."

"No shit I'm angry," John snapped, slamming Mrs. Hudson's door closed. "Jack is upstairs waiting, sure that you didn't forget his birthday. And you're down here, aware of what is going on upstairs, and you aren't there. And he wants you there. And you haven't even..." John took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists to try to quell his anger. "Either get upstairs, or leave. Because then I can tell Jack that you had a case outside of London and even though you tried, you couldn't make it."

Sherlock stopped, letting his arms fall bonelessly to his sides. "I'm not going to leave, John. I..." he hissed, shaking his head. "I asked Mrs. Hudson to help me shop for a gift, I wasn't quite sure what was appropriate, I haven't...I don't buy gifts. And she was more than happy to oblige. We just got back, she was helping me..."

"Oh for fuck's sake Sherlock," John sighed, pushing past him into the kitchen. On the table was a number of large, carefully wrapped presents. John laid a hand on one, and turned back to Sherlock, his face guarded. "Why didn't you just say so? I could have helped you get a gift, if that's what you needed."

Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly looking wild. "I tried to do it on my own! I got him a pickled two-headed pig, and Mrs. Hudson was horrified and made me go back out and get him something else, despite the fact I knew he'd really like the pig. She tried to make me return it, said it wasn't a proper birthday gift, but what does she know? I finally decided on four different gifts, and maybe one of them will be right. It seemed like the best plan."

John leaned against the kitchen table, crossing his arms. "And I got him a chemistry set from you to set up in your lab so he has his own workspace. Far away from yours, near the window for ventilation, mind. So you've got him five gifts."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, taking a step towards John then looking like he instantly regretted the decision. "You thought I wouldn't be here."

"Of course I thought you weren't going to be here. I wasn't...Sherlock, I reminded you, and you weren't here, so I thought you didn't want to be here. I didn't want to force you into anything." Sherlock seemed visibly cowed and he refused to look at John, his head bowed. With a sigh John stepped forward, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm glad you are here, all right? I am. I wanted you here, of course I did, I just didn't want to pressure you. I don't want you to be bored of this. Of Jack and me."

Sherlock's hands, which were loose at his sides, found purchase on John's hips. He held on tightly, and John watched the gears turn in Sherlock's mind as he tried to formulate the right words to express the alien feeling he found himself grappling with. "I fear..." he stopped, taking a deep breath. "I fear I have stepped into the middle of something glorious you have built for yourself and that I will inevitably ruin it. You have a family, John. Friends. A stability that I will never be able to offer you. I fear you'll let all of that go just to please me, and I fear I will let you. And you deserve much more than that. I am...outside of all this, and I don't want to force my inclusion. I care deeply for you, and for Jack, and I want...I want you to be happy, no matter the cost. If the cost is me leaving, then I shall pay it. Not gladly, but necessarily."

John squeezed Sherlock tightly, his eyes wrenched shut to avoid bearing visual witness to the emotional toll Sherlock's confession had on him. "Shut up, Sherlock. Just...stop. I'll be able to...to give Jack the type of life he deserves, but I need you there, all right? Just...you didn't see how I was, before. I couldn't let him out of my sight. I wouldn't let Mrs. Hudson watch him, I wouldn't leave the flat for days on end, I was terrified that something would happen and he'd be gone. All the bloody time, Sherlock. I would dream I would wake up here, in Baker Street, and it would be completely empty. No Jack, no you, no clue that either of you had ever existed. I couldn't fucking breathe sometimes, couldn't sleep unless I had my hand resting over his heart or wrapped around his tiny little wrist, feeling his pulse. I was terrified he'd leave me too, Sherlock. And now you're here, and I can breathe again. Finally. I wasn't living...I was doing the best I could, given the circumstances. And Jack notices, he notices how much happier I am with you, because he's happier as well." John swallowed around the lump in his throat and listened to Sherlock's heightened heart beat for a moment, trying to will their heartbeats into alignment. "I need you, you berk. I need you to be a part of this family. Because as much as you'd deny it, you're the reason I have everything I do. This world I've built, I've built it for you. Because of you. Because I knew it was what you would want me to do."

"I did see you," Sherlock replied, his voice a mere rumble against John's ear. "I saw you and I ached."

John's eyes were burning and he pulled back, clearing his throat as he tried to keep his emotions under control. "Enough of that. Jack's going to kill me for making him wait so long to open his gifts."

"John..."

John send Sherlock a pleading look and he lifted his hands from John's hips, one finger at a time. "Right," John croaked, gathering up two of the boxes from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table. "Get the other two, then."

Sherlock's gaze was heavy but he did what he was told without argument. "I do hope you hid the birthday cake from Mycroft. He's an insufferable glutton when it comes to cake."

John chuckled and led them upstairs.

* * *

Sherlock's cheeks flushed a startling shade of pink when Jack, wrapped in one of his scarves and sporting a deerstalker and an eye patch, launched himself into Sherlock's arms and gave him an enormous hug as soon as Sherlock had put down the gifts. He hugged the boy back just as enthusiastically, his fingers splayed wide over his back.

Mrs. Hudson was carefully inserting five candles into the cake and discreetly blotting away her tears. Molly was left to tidy up the game of Operation she was very quickly losing, and Mycroft and Greg were chatting over glasses of wine on the sofa as Anthea cleaned up what remained of the meal.

"Help me open my presents Sherlock!" Jack all-but shouted, tugging Sherlock down to sit in the floor with him by the significantly larger pile of gifts. "Dad, write a blog about what all I get, like your list of what Sherlock's good at!"

"To be fair, the list is both what he's good at and what he's not so good at," John grumbled, but opened his laptop all the same.

* * *

_From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

_On this, the anniversary of the birth of Jack A. Holmes, Consulting Pirate Detective, he received the following items in loot: _

_From Mrs. Hudson, a rather fetching jumper she knitted herself and an enormous box of very nice chocolate. _

_From Greg and Molly, a Crime Scene Investigation kit and a medical bag complete with stethoscope, respectively. _

_From Mycroft, a ship in a bottle kit and a pirate ship fort, to be constructed in the living room to "get a start on your own mind palace, Jack". _

_From John, AKA Dad, A laptop of his very own, so maybe he'll leave mine alone. _

_From Anthea, a number of games for said laptop and two boxes of custard creams, to share. _

_From Sherlock: _

_ A chemistry set for use in Sherlock's laboratory_

_ A pickled two-headed pig, so Wiggle has a friend who shares his interests_

_ A large treasure trunk filled with books that previously belonged to Sherlock as a child_

_ A bicycle_

_ A Jack Holmes-sized Belstaff coat, for use in the field_


	13. Chapter 13

"Mycroft's taking Jack to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. He's taken a day off tomorrow and asked if he could take him for the day. I told him it was all right with me, but I said I'd check with you. Think about it before you say no."

Sherlock scowled from his perch on his haphazard pile of all the cushions in the flat, his palm pressed flat against his row of nicotine patches as he studied the dying fire. "No," he drawled, his eyes narrowing a bit.

John kicked one of the cushions loose and flopped down on the floor beside him, resting his head on it as he watched Sherlock's eyes flicker in the warm light of the flames. It was nearly midnight, and John was too tired to argue. "We need to talk, Sherlock. Just you and me. Mycroft's been kind enough to offer to give us that opportunity, and Jack will have fun. Mycroft said you were obsessed with that museum as a boy, it will be better than sitting down in Mrs. Hudson's flat all day."

"He can't be away all day John," Sherlock said, his tone slow and careful. "You'll worry, you said you'd worry. We can take him to the museum some other time, we don't need to talk, we've settled..." he patted his forearm in agitation. "There's nothing to discuss."

"There is," John replied, the definition of patience. "I've already told him it's all right, Sherlock, even though I knew you'd argue."

Sherlock dropped his head, closing his eyes. "He'll just have Anthea herd Jack around while he conducts business via his mobile. He'll ignore him all day. Or worse, take him somewhere to be tested. He's quite good at that, promising one place and delivering quite another."

John climbed to his feet and stretched with a groan. "Anthea doesn't have a day off, it's just going to be Mycroft, Jack, and his invisible guards. He's good with him, Sherlock. And Jack adores him. It will be fine. Plus, Jack would tell us if Mycroft took him to some facility, he'd be sorely disappointed there were no ships."

Sherlock frowned and turned towards John. "Why are you okay with this? I thought you didn't want to let Jack out of your sight, and now you're letting Mycroft take him to Greenwich for an entire day? Don't push yourself to do something you aren't comfortable with, John."

John shook his head, catching his bottom lip between his teeth briefly before he smiled, just a bit. "I'm not as paranoid anymore, Sherlock. Despite what you may believe, I was recovering from your death quite well, considering. It took me a bit, but I got back on track. Jack's been places with Mycroft before, he's probably the safest person in Britain to be with. Molly and Greg have taken him to the park and for ice cream while I ran errands. I'm fine, I'm better. I worry, but it would be strange if I didn't. Everyone worries. I worry a bit more than most, but I've got good reason, haven't I?"

Sherlock huffed, tearing off his nicotine patches more violently than necessary. "I suppose I don't have a choice, then. It seems to me that you've already decided that we're going to talk about our _feelings_ tomorrow, as loathe as I am to open that particular Pandora's box. I don't want to disappoint you with my lack of empathy to your plight."

"You don't have to be so hostile," John sighed. "We don't have to talk about _feelings_, you idiot. We can do a case, if you want. We haven't been alone since you've been back, you realize. And you've been back a little over a year. Life's moving really quickly, and I need to catch my breath. It's overwhelming, all this. Everything fell back into place so easily I haven't really..." He shrugged. "I still miss you, I suppose."

Sherlock let the fire die, and the room fell into darkness. John locked the door and put away Sherlock's cushions slowly, systematically. He stretched and headed towards the staircase, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Are you coming to bed?" John asked, not turning back to Sherlock.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said dismissively, staring longingly at his lab. "I'll be along shortly."

"You won't," John replied, and went up the stairs.

Sherlock didn't come to bed until John was rousing Jack to get him ready for his trip to the museum. He wandered in the room, looking exhausted and more than a little petulant, throwing himself on the bed. It had been so recently vacated that it was still warm, and he burrowed into the blankets until all that was visible was the top of his head.

Jack watched him with bleary concern as John brushed out his unruly curls and laid out a warm jumper and corduroy trousers. "You can have my spot if you like, Sherlock," Jack offered softly before he yawned. "I'm not using it."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible under the blankets and Jack frowned. With a shrug John herded Jack off to brush his teeth, and he went downstairs to start a cup of tea. Mycroft had made it clear that he and Jack would be having breakfast on the car ride out, and Jack had marveled at the idea. It was like he'd never thought of having food in the car before, and John couldn't help but laugh a bit.

Resigned to a day of Sherlock flopping about dramatically and pouting, John avoided going back to the bedroom. He knew that Sherlock had only retreated when he felt Mycroft's arrival was drawing near, and it was obvious that he'd rather cut out his own tongue than speak to his brother. Sherlock thought he was being manipulated. He was, when it came down to it, but the time to talk about how Sherlock felt about John was now, not at their son's birthday party. They needed to outline the nature of their relationship outside of their obligations to Jack, and if removing Jack from the equation for a few hours was what it took, then John was more than happy to take up Mycroft on his well-placed offer.

John was unsure about what Sherlock expected of him, what he expected John to do now that he had returned. And they hadn't talked about it, not really, because Jack's needs were first and John had stopped feeling for years to remind himself of that. He couldn't break, not when he had a life depending on him. And now he has two lives depending on him, Jack and Sherlock, and he'd somehow forgotten what it was like to feel something, really feel. Because even now he can break, and all it takes is for Sherlock to hesitate or stutter over sentiment or admit that he needs John or to curl his fingers in against John's hips or palms, and he feels the beginnings of those breaks start to crack all over again.

He cannot ask Sherlock to do something he is not capable of doing. To feel something for John that his heart isn't wired for. He had been so straightforward with his own emotions, so much that he was sure that Sherlock had been frightened by the intensity, the overwhelming anger and desperation and unconditional love that John forced on him. When Sherlock so much as hinted at reciprocation, John couldn't help but feel pacified and skeptical. Like Sherlock was trying to soften the blow of the eventual dismissal. John braced himself for it, tried to protect his heart, but his heart was no longer his to protect. It was in Sherlock's hands, and damn if his grip wasn't a bit too tight.

* * *

Mycroft arrived a few minutes early wearing driving gloves and a jaunty fedora. It took all of John's willpower not to burst out laughing the instant he saw the man, and the last little bit to not turn to see Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock was still pouting in bed, and Jack had no comment on the matter. "I packed him a bag for the car ride, snacks and books, you know, if he gets bored," John said, helping Jack shrug the knap sack over his shoulder. "Text when you arrive," he added as he watched Mycroft hold out his hand and Jack take it wordlessly, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Of course Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, his eyes sliding to the staircase with an arched brow. He didn't comment, didn't have to, and he offered a tight smile. "I'm sure Jack will be thrilled to regale you with stories of our maritime adventures, won't you?"

Jack nodded enthusiastically and John wrapped him in a brief hug, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Be good for your uncle, all right? I expect to get a good report when you get home." Jack nodded, looking put-upon, and John straightened back up. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"I really must be thanking you," Mycroft said with a dismissive wave. "You've made the Holmes family somewhat tolerable. I shall keep you informed of our progress to and from Greenwich." He checked his fob watch and nodded, mostly to himself. "Do attempt to rouse my brother into doing something productive today."

John rolled his eyes and saw the pair of them out. He started another cup of tea. He nibbled on a stale custard cream that was a holdover from Jack's birthday gift from Anthea. He went upstairs, steeling himself for a verbal lashing about his apparent fondness of Mycroft.

But Sherlock was asleep against the wall, curled in Jack's normal spot in bed. His whole head was now poking out of the blankets; it must have gotten progressively harder to breathe, and he was hugging John's pillow to his chest. He had conquered all corners of the sleeping territory, and John couldn't find it in himself to mind too terribly much. Instead he climbed in next to Sherlock, pulled his pillow from his tight grasp, and went back to sleep, making room for himself in enemy territory.


	14. Chapter 14

John woke up cold. Sherlock was awake but hadn't retreated, although he was still visibly hostile. He was leaning against the wall, still wrapped in the blankets as he frowned down at John. "You trying to see if you can set me on fire with your mind?"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, resting his head on his knees. Even then, he didn't look away. "If I wanted to set fire to you I would resort to traditional means, rest assured."

John yawned, checking the clock. Sherlock had only been asleep for two hours, but he seems relatively well-rested. John climbed out of bed and stretched. "I'm going to shower," he muttered, and left the bedroom without further comment.

Sherlock hadn't moved when John re-entered, still damp and wrapped in his dressing gown, a towel draped around his neck. John tried to ignore him, but his gaze tracked his every move and was starting to grate on John's last nerve. "For fuck's sake Sherlock, what?" John finally snapped. "What? What do you want?" He sighed, rubbing his face. "Sorry, you're just...just say what you want to say. Please."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, shaking his head. His intense focus on him didn't waver and John dressed with sharp, efficient precision, his back towards Sherlock. "I will answer anything you ask of me. I will not volunteer any information you do not expressly request."

John tugged down his jumper, trying not to let his frustration show. By the slight antagonistic nature of Sherlock's smirk, John was certain he hadn't been very successful. "I'm not going to make you talk about anything you don't want to talk about, Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock threw off the blankets, revealing his hopelessly wrinkled clothes from the day before. He stood, snatched up John's abandoned dressing gown, and shrugged it on before going downstairs. John followed him a few paces behind as Sherlock spoke, his words rapid-fire. "You obviously feel unsure about the nature of the expectations I have concerning our...arrangement. If discussing it is what you find necessary to clarify my intentions towards your family, then by all means we will discuss it. Shall I make tea, or are you afraid I will attempt to dose you with hallucinogenics?"

"You wouldn't pull the same trick twice," John replied, waving a hand towards the kitchen, granting permission. Sherlock making tea was a familiar storm, throwing tea bags and violently spooning sugar into one of the cups and splashing milk into the other. John watched his sharp movements and something that Sherlock had just said hit him. "It's...it's not _my_ family, Sherlock. I don't own it, all right? It was given to me by you, if I take your silence as assent. If it's easier for you to think of it that way, as something that's all mine, that's fine, but you should know that I don't see it that way. We are a family- you, me, and Jack. It's_ our_ family, all right?"

Sherlock slammed the kettle down on the hob, his shoulders tense. "I don't know what you want me to say, John. That isn't a question. I need questions."

John clenched his jaw. "You understand why I was okay with Mycroft talking Jack, right? Tell me what you deduced from my change of heart."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "You are no longer suffering from crippling separation anxiety as you where when he was first yours. My leaving aggravated your memories of the war and not being able to save your men, and your mind worked out that the reason you couldn't save them is because you weren't there to protect them in the first place. Same with me. Therefore, if you were always there for Jack, you could protect him and thus he wouldn't need saving. You held on to that delusion for quite a while, too long, but someone convinced you that you needed to let go, just a bit. My guess is Lestrade, seeing as he has some experience with children, but there's no doubting that you knew how irrational your thought process was. So you took baby steps, little by little. Until you could suppress the anxiety enough to be able to concentrate on something other than how much you needed Jack back in the flat with you. The fact that I've returned and you no longer have the guilt of my death on your conscience only makes it that much easier for you to trust that Jack will be safe with other people. Even Mycroft."

The kettle screamed, and Sherlock carefully poured out the boiling water. "I didn't feel guilty when you died," John argued, but Sherlock leveled him with a glare. "Fine, of course I did. How could I have known you had it all planned out?"

Sherlock sighed and passed over the tea that had milk in. "You can't fix everything, John. In the grand scope of things, you can fix the vast minority of the wrongs that occur. Do stop worrying yourself into an early grave."

"Stop fussing." John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock stare down at his own cup, his fingers tapping the counter nervously. "Fine, you get it. That's good. All right, so-next, then. Do you want to be a parent to Jack?"

Sherlock blinked once. Twice. His gaze on John was level, and he said, "No."

"Why?"

"You're doing a well enough job on your own. I will assist you in any way you require, but I defy a title. The idea of being someone's parent is somewhat repellant. Any association with me when it comes to the general public will not be beneficial for a child. You are much more capable and well-suited for the job than I. Therefore you are Jack's father, and I shall be his Sherlock. As I am yours. Next question."

John sighed, dropping his head to the counter with a resounding thump. "You can't just...do you listen to yourself when you speak? You say the most devastatingly gorgeous things, did you know?"

Sherlock's cheeks flushed, and he frowned. "Next question."

John took a long gulp of his tea before clearing his throat, watching Sherlock fiddle with his chipped saucer. "Why does this conversation make you so nervous?"

Sherlock's whole body tensed, taut like the bow of his Stradivarius. When he spoke his words were slow and measured. "Words are very limiting. I speak four languages fluently, and not one of them has the vocabulary to express what is in my mind with any accuracy. As to how I _feel_, feeling is a completely involuntary reaction to both external and internal stimuli. Feelings are irrelevant, John. Just _think_. What you _think_ and _know_ is what is important, not your inane _feelings_. I am uncomfortable because you don't understand that, and are constantly worried about how I feel about situations. Stop worrying and just ask. Next question."

"Telling me to stop worrying is like telling you to stop being an annoying dick, but I'll remember that. But asking you _What do you think?_ is practically begging for you to call me an idiot. And you're pretty good at that without me prompting you."

Sherlock smirked. "I shall endeavor to restrain myself."

John returned the smile, but only just. He finished off his tea and pushed Sherlock's cup a bit closer to him. "Drink, before it gets cold."

Sherlock took his tea like a shot of alcohol, slamming the empty cup back down. "There, happy?"

John rolled his eyes and cleared away the empty dishes. "Ecstatic. I can barely restrain my joy. I may faint, I'm so overwhelmed with happiness."

"John."

John ignored the antagonism that saturated that single word, and turned back to Sherlock. "Fine. Are you in love with me?"

Sherlock huffed out a surprised breath. "What a ridiculous question. Think, John."

John licked his bottom lip, tilting his head to the side. "It's fine if you are, Sherlock. It's more than fine. Here, then, do I need to say it first? All right. I wasn't aware of how much I cared about you until you were up there on that roof. And for some reason, for some holy reason, I got another chance to tell you. I don't want another day to go by where you aren't sure that I love you, all right? You've probably deduced it, but there it is. I love you. And when I compare how much I love you to any of my past relationships, I can only conclude that I'm in love with you as well. You're it for me, Sherlock. And I'll take whatever you give me, however large or small, just for the chance to stay at your side. Forever."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed thickly. He spread his fingers over the counter and watched his them curl around John's without his permission. John's hands weren't graceful, they were practical. Square and rough and darkened by the sun. His fingers were short and broad, but Sherlock fitted their hands together so that fingerprints aligned with fingerprints as closely as he could match. Sherlock finally cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the heavy silence, and said, "I'm not having sex with you."

John sat, baffled for all of a minute. Then he broke out in peals of uncontrollable laughter that Sherlock couldn't help echoing. When John had finally regained himself he wiped away his tears of laughter and said, "I know that, Sherlock. I don't expect you to. I think I can manage."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand for a moment before he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a tentative kiss to John's knuckles. John watched him, curiosity mixed with happiness on his face. "Thank you John," Sherlock said against his skin before he let go of John's hand. His eyes were wide and bright, and most of the tension had drained from his body. "Your grasp of the language of...of affection is much more expansive than mine. You have those words at your disposal, you can understand..." Sherlock shook his head, as if shaking away an unpleasant thought. "I was kidnapped once. Stabbed, tied up and tossed in the boot of a car. I was alone, and no one knew where I was. And there was a moment, right before I lost consciousness, that I thought _At_ _least I can rest now. At least I'll be able to rest,_ and I felt such peace in that moment." Worry was etched on John's face, and Sherlock tapped the back of his hand gently. "I only bring up that incident because it was the first time outside of drugs that I had felt such...stillness. My mind went quiet and I could breathe. It saved my life, I could focus. I no longer need the danger to feel that way anymore. I just need Baker Street. I need you and Jack and a cup of tea and I feel as close to human as I ever have. What you have given me is extraordinary. I am content, John. I have never claimed to be before, never thought it possible for a man such as myself to be comfortable. But I am. You made the world a far, far easier place."

John pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the wall. "Seems like you've got a pretty good grasp of it yourself then," He said before clearing his throat. "Right. I don't have any more questions at the moment."

"Nor I answers."

John started to speak but Sherlock's phone chirped. He read the text message in a flash and typed back a rapid-fire response, his smile growing in measured increments. "A case, John. Lestrade has a serial burglary. Stealing artifacts from museums in broad daylight!"

John nodded and wandered into the living room. Sherlock followed him a few paces behind, tapping the screen of his phone impatiently for a moment before bounding up the stairs to get dressed. When he returned John was typing away on his laptop and Sherlock had on his coat and scarf in a breath. "Coming?" Sherlock asked, almost apprehensively.

John looked up from his laptop, and held Sherlock's gaze. One breath. Two. In one motion he snapped his laptop shut and stood. "Oh god yes."

The left Baker Street behind together.


	15. Chapter 15

The case turned out to be more exciting than Sherlock had predicted in the cab in route to the latest crime scene. Not only had artifacts been stolen in broad daylight, but false artifacts had been planted within the museums alongside the historical ones. Skull replicas had been added to elaborate displays of mammalian bones while ancient carved elephant tusks had been stolen. There seemed to be no pattern to the replacements or thefts, at least none that John could see.

"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock had said with a wild grin and pulled out his mobile, tapping out a text as he chuckled. "You'll find the additions to the displays is a code for the burglars, Lestrade. They're marking the museums they've hit with the monetary value of what they've stolen. They're trying to do an equal amount of damage, but seeing as they've stolen a Kandinsky from the Tate Modern and left behind a Warhol forgery, they'll have to be back here for something more than an elephant tusk. Have this museum watched, that skull means they'll be back and when they return you will have your burglars."

Greg let out an exasperated huff and looked to John, who shrugged. "How do you...?" Greg began, but shook his head. "I'll call it in." He pulled out his mobile and wandered over to a vacant corner of the museum, his authoritative voice echoing in the large museum.

"You know about Kandinsky and Warhol?" John asked, raising his eyebrows as he watched Sherlock put away his phone. "How do you know about Kandinsky and Warhol?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "I have a Warhol in the living room, John. A gift from Mycroft the first time I completed drug rehabilitation. When I relapsed I became very familiar with how much a Warhol would fetch at auction."

John crossed his arms and shifted his stance a bit, squaring his shoulders. "You'd do that, then? Just sell it like that?"

"Obviously I didn't," Sherlock replied, resting his hands on his hips as he scanned the crowd with narrow, dangerous eyes. "I learned my lesson when he took away my Stradivarius the second time I sold it. That was also a gift, one he gave me when he discovered that I had not lied about our father's infidelity. Mother was crushed, of course, but I was quite proud of my new violin. He gave it back after he made it clear he would not be buying it back for me again."

John licked his lips and watched Greg end his call and start back towards them. "Why on earth are you telling me this?"

Sherlock frowned at John but said nothing.

"All right, a team is on their way. You two best clear out, the powers that be still aren't sold on us continuing to consult with Sherlock," Greg said with a poorly concealed eye roll. He turned fully to John and his expression softened a bit. "It's good to see you back on the case, John. Lord knows we weren't looking forward to having to deal with him without you to rough him a bit."

John chuckled and clasped Greg's shoulder. "When you've got this mess sorted we'll grab a pint, yeah?"

Sherlock had taken his phone out again and was fiddling with its settings. "Yeah, all right. And Molly'd love to spend some time with Jack. And she'd like to see a certain overgrown bat skulking around the morgue more often if you could make the time, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted noncommittally and John rolled his eyes. "Come on Sherlock," he said, steering him out of the museum by his elbow. "We really need to get you to socialize outside of the morgue."

Sherlock broke free of John's light grasp and hailed a cab. "I like the morgue. I like Molly in the morgue. Out of the morgue, Molly is too chatty and talks incessantly about Lestrade and informs me in nauseating detail of their proposed future together having children. As if I could find it in myself to care about her girlish prattling."

"They're happy Sherlock, that's what people do when they're happy," John explained, trying to keep exasperation out of his tone. "They tell their friends about how happy they are."

"I have not agreed to be her friend," Sherlock said, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

John sighed and slid down in his seat. "Being someone's friend is not a binding legal contract, Sherlock. And you like her, just admit you don't like change. You don't handle it well. Molly's not mooning after you anymore and Greg has better things to do than play the father and clean up your mess when you do something a bit not good. You'll just have to deal with the fact that everything changed while you were gone."

Sherlock was staring out the window, and his tone was bored. "And yet remarkably, you remain just as infuriating."

John smirked, looking out his own window. "I do my best."

* * *

They arrived at the flat to find Mycroft's car parked in front. Sherlock frowned at the car, as if the vehicle had personally wronged him. John ignored him and went inside, where he was greeted with trilling music played on a lone violin.

"Vivaldi, how pedestrian," Sherlock grumbled in his ear before brushing past John to go up the stairs first. Sherlock shucked his coat and scarf quietly, pointedly not looking at his brother. Instead he watched Jack watch Mycroft, his dark eyes tired but rapt.

Mycroft ended the song with flourish and bowed at the waist as Jack clapped wildly from the crow's nest of his pirate ship playhouse, a pocket sundial draped around his neck. "Bravo!" he cheered, swinging his legs a bit. John looked from Sherlock to Jack to Mycroft before clapping himself. Mycroft carefully put Sherlock's violin down, steeling himself. Sherlock's tirade was delayed when Jack catapulted from his pirate ship into Sherlock's arms, chattering about the replica of a Cuddy Sark he'd seen and all the little ships in bottles and how Uncle Crofty knew everything. "And he got me this sun dial so I can tell time," Jack finished with a gust of breath, holding the pocket sun dial at Sherlock's eye level. "I need the sun for it to work, but it does work! I just have to practice."

Sherlock sighed, taking the sun dial gently between his fingertips. "You'll have to be quite good if you plan to be a pirate," he finally said, putting Jack back down and nudging him towards John. "I have faith in your abilities."

John knelt down and allowed Jack to explain how the sun dial worked with rapt attention, only briefly looking up to check that Sherlock planned to behave himself. Sherlock's face was impassive, even as he stared at his violin. Mycroft cleared his throat. "Jack seemed to be under the impression that you are the only one in the world who can play violin, Sherlock. What have you been telling the boy? I do hope you can forgive my demonstration."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Jack reclaimed his spot in the crow's nest and swung out his legs. "Uncle Crofty played for me! He's very good, Sherlock. His music is happier than yours, but I bet playing makes you happy. Dad, have you seen Sherlock play?"

John watched Sherlock carefully put away his violin before he disappeared into his lab, closing the door gently. "I've seen him play, yes," John replied, drawing Jack's attention away from Sherlock's door. "He plays because it helps him think. It doesn't make him happy, not really. Maybe you can ask him to play for you, and that would make him happy."

Jack's smile wasn't quite genuine, and John turned toward Mycroft, who was studying the violin case pensively. "I never know what particular mind field I will find myself stumbling into," he said, letting out a sigh as he offered a tight-lipped smile to John. "Dinner is being delivered, so you needn't worry unduly. I will take my leave and perhaps you can coax Sherlock out of his sulk long enough to eat something." He picked up his ever-present umbrella and smiled at Jack. "At ease, Captain Jack. Until my next shore leave. You should ask your father about what it's like to be a Captain, maybe you can pick up some valuable information."

John scoffed when Jack spun around to stare at him incredulously. "Not a sea captain! I'm not a sea captain, don't get excited. Just a boring old Army captain, I'm afraid."

Mycroft rested a hand on Jack's shoulder briefly before he crossed to the door. "Good night, Captains Watson and Holmes, rulers of land and sea."

Jack offered a salute, and John offered an eye roll.

Mycroft left chuckling.


	16. Chapter 16

Jack stared down into the pot on the stove, looking skeptical. He adjusted his safety glasses, his overly large rubber gloves squeaking as he bend his fingers. "It doesn't look very good, Sherlock. Is it supposed to look like that?"

Sherlock stepped up behind the stool Jack was perched on and pushed up his own safety glasses with a single finger. "Yes. When this has simmered down enough we'll pour it into the baking dish and cover it with the potato. Then we'll have shepard's pie."

Jack wrinkled his nose. "I don't know, it looks wrong." He poked at the mixture with a spoon. "It's got too much veg in."

Sherlock drained the boiling water off the potatoes before adding milk and butter to the pot. "You were in charge of the recipe, Jack. We added the precise amount it called for."

Jack put his hands on his hips, picking at the strings of his apron. "He's going to hate it."

"John's not going to hate it," Sherlock scoffed, peeling off his gloves. "He'll like it better than anything he's ever eaten. You know why?"

Jack rolled his eyes and stirred the pot with a scowl. "Cause he likes vegetables?"

Sherlock chuckled as he mashed the potatoes. "Because you made it. Obviously. You knew that, you were just trying to be funny. I did laugh, well played you."

Jack smirked and tossed the spoon into the sink. "Ready the dish, Sherlock."

"Aye Captain," Sherlock muttered before he turned off the flame, lifting the pot away. He poured the mixture into the baking dish. "Awaiting further instruction."

Jack pointed at the potatoes. "Next comes potatoes."

Sherlock moved the potatoes and the dish closer to Jack. "That step is yours. Just dollop it on and smooth it out."

Jack frowned and did as he was told, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. "Can we put cheese on top?" he asked, glancing up at Sherlock expectantly.

"Does the recipe call for cheese?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the counter.

Jack wrinkled his nose. "Well, no. But it would be good! I like cheese on potatoes."

"You like cheese on everything. Fine, we'll call it an experiment."

Jack sighed, taking a bite of potato. "Done!" he said and watched Sherlock sprinkle cheese on top. He jumped down off the stool and pulled it out of the way to make room for Sherlock to open the oven and put the shepard's pie in.

"I'm home!" John called from the doorway and Jack jumped, his eyed wide.

"Oh no!" he hissed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You aren't going to be in trouble," Sherlock said with a smirk, pushing his glasses up on his head. "I'll set the timer and the table. Go say hello to your dad."

Before Jack could move John was in the kitchen, his brow furrowed. "It's too quiet in here, what in the world are you two doing? I don't smell anything terrible."

"John," Sherlock said, nudging Jack closer. "Jack has a surprise for you."

John looked between them, taking in the aprons, goggles, and gloves. "What is happening? What experiment did you two do? Should I call the fire brigade?"

Jack frowned, bouncing on his heels. "We made dinner! Your favourite, shepard's pie. It was my idea, but Sherlock helped me find the recipe and the chopping."

"You made dinner," John repeated, looking from Jack to Sherlock. "You followed a recipe and made dinner."

"It was my idea to put cheese on top," Jack said, pulling off his gloves with flourish.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and untied his apron, passing off his apron and glasses to Jack. "Go put our equipment back in the lab and I'll set the table."

Jack scurried off and Sherlock pulled plates out of the cupboard. "It was his idea, he wanted to do something nice for you."

"I didn't know you could cook," John said, sitting on the counter. "It smells lovely."

"How was your day?" Sherlock asked, setting the table quickly before crossing over to John, leaning against the counter next to him.

John frowned suspiciously as he watched Jack pop back in the room and throw himself against his legs, wrapping his arms around John's knees. "Fine, it was fine. You know I was just helping Harry move, right? That I wasn't out looking for a flat to sneak away to when I'm cross?"

Sherlock scoffed, pulled back on his fireproof gloves, and crossed to the oven to pull out the shepard's pie. He dropped the dish onto the table without preamble and shed his gloves, tossing them onto the counter. "Alright. Sit down all."

Jack scrambled into his seat quickly, picking up his cup of milk with both hands and drinking half in one gulp.

Sherlock cleared his throat and Jack's head snapped up. Sherlock arched a brow and Jack smacked himself on the forehead, climbing back out of his seat to pull out John's chair for him. He bowed dramatically at the waist and said "Your chair, sir."

John chuckled and sat, Sherlock following in suit. Jack climbed back into his seat and dropped bread onto everyone's plates with flourish as Sherlock dished out a large helping of shepard's pie on John's plate. He spooned out smaller portions for himself and for Jack.

"It looks lovely," John said, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's face for a moment before turning to Jack. "How did you know this was my favourite?"

"Sherlock and I brainstormed," Jack chirped, poking his food with a frown. "We remembered you like to cook it when you've had a bad day. Sherlock's recipe had too much veg in, though. I can tell."

"I used the exact same recipe John does," Sherlock interjected, leaning back in his chair. "You've just never seen exactly how many vegetables are in it before. You'll probably never eat it again, solely on principle."

Jack peeled the melted cheese off the top and dangled it over his mouth. "Sherlock wouldn't let me chop anything, he just let me stir. But it was my idea. I made you a card and everything. I drew a picture of you, me and Sherlock."

John started to talk but Sherlock jumped to his feet. "Would you like a beer, John? I bought you Stella, I know..."

"Wait..." John interjected, holding up a hand to still Sherlock. "You went to the shops? You actually went to the shops for all this?"

"Sherlock let me ride in the buggy," Jack said before taking a tentative bite of his pie. "It tastes different."

John sighed, massaging his temples for a moment. "I appreciate the thought Sherlock, but I'll pass on the beer. Sit down and eat, yeah?" He scooped a rather large bite into his mouth before turning back to Jack, whose eyes were wide with anticipation. After a moment of contemplation he hummed pleasantly, giving the boy a thumbs-up. "It's very good. Better than when I make it, I daresay."

"Sherlock said you'd say that," Jack said, preening.

"Did he?" John asked, looking over to Sherlock. He was picking apart his helping of supper with an unreadable expression. "Sherlock, you have to try it to make the final call. Does it taste the same?"

"Of course it does, we followed the recipe exactly," he grumbled, but took a small bite. "It has cheese on."

"Obviously," Jack parroted before shoveling the rest of his food into his mouth and polishing off his milk in record time. "Can I go and play now?" he asked, climbing up on his knees in his seat.

"Yeah, of course," John replied, and Jack didn't hesitate before bolting off. "Wash your hands and face."

"Yes dad!" Jack squeaked before barreling up the stairs.

Sherlock made to stand as well but John pinned him with a glare so fierce he changed his mind. "The picture he drew had us all wearing matching coats. In all fairness, we look exactly the same except for the hair. And I'm taller, naturally."

"I know what you're trying to do," John said before taking another bite, watching the subtle shift of Sherlock's face as the words sank in.

"It is rather obvious, I'd be disturbed if you didn't."

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I appreciate it, Sherlock. I really do. It's a brilliant surprise, and I'm glad Jack was so excited to help."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock began before straightening his spine, lifting his chin a bit. "Spending time with your sister always upsets you, so we felt a preemptive strike was necessary. Sometimes you like to have a drink after such an encounter, and sometimes the idea repulses you. I felt it pertinent that I be prepared for either option. Since in this case it was the latter, I'm sure Lestrade would be more than happy to assist you in drinking them at a later date."

"Thank you," John said, trying to hide his grin. "God, what I would have paid to see you and Jack at the market."

"I somehow seem to avoid having rows with chip-and-pin machines."

John chuckled, lowering his face into his hands as he shook his head. "Ridiculous things," he muttered, and Sherlock's low laugh joined his.

Sherlock took a deep breath and with a huff said, "I hate cheese."

Their laughter started up all over again.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock lifted a lock of coarse dark hair, wrapping the curl around his finger. It felt brittle and almost powdery, and he let it fall back against the cadaver's head with a huff. "Molly," he called before he repeated the name, slightly louder. He couldn't remember if she had been in or not when he arrived.

When Molly didn't instantly appear he checked the rest of the cadaver's head to see if he could spot an area where a hair sample had been snipped away for analysis. Finding none, he rolled his eyes. "Molly Hooper!" he bellowed, looking around the theatre impatiently.

"Coming!" Molly's voice called from a nearby lab, and she appeared, pushing her goggles up on her head as she peeled off her labs. She stopped just inside the theatre, tossed away her gloves, and put her hands on her hips. "Sherlock, I promised John I wouldn't let you bring him anywhere near the bodies. He's supposed to wait in my office."

Sherlock scoffed. "Jack's fine. I've forbidden him from getting out from underneath the examination table. Haven't I, Jack?"

Jack poked his head out from underneath the examination table that held the curly-haired woman, halting his colouring long enough to smile at Molly. "Hi Moll! Sherlock's letting me colour all the bones different colours."

"Hey Jack," Molly said, crossing a few steps closer to him. "Did Sherlock made sure you didn't see anything scary in here?"

Jack nodded as Sherlock leaned over the body impatiently. "Yes, of course I did," he said dismissively. "You should test her hair. She was poisoned, a cocktail that wouldn't show up in a blood test. But the hair's the dead giveaway. Little by little someone poisoned this woman, gradually. Her ex-husband. When she stopped receiving the doses her body went into shock. It was so used to the poison it didn't know what to do without it. Fascinating, really."

"Terrible," Molly said as she rushed off to get new gloves in order to collect the samples. "Greg knew it was the ex, but with this he can arrest him. Thank goodness. They'll just have to search his home for poisons."

Sherlock stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back as he watched Molly snip a small lock of hair free and place it in a small bag. "Lestrade is a good man."

Molly cheeks coloured and she laughed uneasily. "He is, yeah."

"His name's Greg, Sherlock," Jack piped in from under the table. "It's not Lestrade."

"His name will always be Lestrade," Sherlock said with an air of finality. "I'm still not fully convinced that Greg is really his name."

As if summoned, Lestrade came through the doors looking harried and a little breathless. "Sherlock! Good to see you here, a little bird told me you'd dropped by. This is a sight for sore eyes indeed."

"I'm here on a fairly regular basis," Sherlock said, pulling his phone from his pocket. "But I was just leaving."

"Sherlock says it was poison," Molly said, holding up the lock of hair. "I was just about to test this sample to figure out what sort of poison."

"Ms. Hooper," Lestrade said with a grin and a wink. "Excellent. Do you need any help? I'm a fast learner."

"I...sure," Molly chirped, and Lestrade clapped his hands together.

"Great." Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and coughed tactfully. "And I'll do my best to forget that I ever saw Jack in the bloody morgue, seeing as that is rule number one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obliged. Jack, pack up your things and cover your eyes."

Jack packed away his crayons and closed his coloring book, putting them into his small green backpack. He shrugged it on and covered his eyes with his hands. "Done."

Sherlock kneeled down and swept Jack up onto his hip, and the boy wrapped his arms around his neck. He turned to Lestrade and Molly and offered them a nod. "The tests should prove conclusive. Molly, do throw the Detective Inspective a bone and accept his lunch invitation. He really is quite smitten, if you hadn't noticed by now. I can't begin to fathom how you could possibly miss something so glaringly obvious."

And with that Sherlock left, telling Jack he could uncover his eyes as soon as they were in a corpse-free zone.

When they returned to Baker Street John was scrubbing the kitchen counters, frowning. The entire flat was immaculately clean, and Jack bounded straight into the living room, climbing up on the couch where Puppy the cat was sleeping, curled in a little ball on the Union Jack pillow.

"If you're going to walk in here take off your shoes," John said without preamble, finishing up the cleaning with flourish. "I just mopped and the floor's not dry yet."

"I would have helped you clean if you had said that was your goal for the day," Sherlock said as he shrugged off his coat. "Instead you send me off to Bart's."

"It's easier to clean when the two mess makers are out of the way," John said. "Much easier. And I didn't touch your lab, so if there's something that's going to go off in there it's your responsibility."

John was talking, but Sherlock wasn't listening to the words. He was listening to the cadence of the words, even and enunciated and somehow musical in its lack of poetry. John was a whirlwind; his hair was mussed and the shirt he was wearing had a hole near the collarbone that had come from a run-in with razor wire chasing after Sherlock. Sherlock remembered that day very clearly, remembered the small amount of blood that had soaked through the light fabric. There hadn't been enough blood for it to soak through the jumper John had been wearing at the time, but it had stained the shirt. John had kept it for some reason, and slept in it. Apparently cleaned in it.

That had been nearly six years ago. He still had the bloody shirt. The cotton was wearing thin and it had a hole and was stained with his blood but John still wore it, despite everything. Sherlock could feel his brow furrowing, his jaw tightening, and his eyes were inexplicably burning. He hated it.

John's voice had stopped, and he was standing in front of Sherlock, looking slightly worried. "Sherlock. Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head, and leaned against the counter, covering his face with his hands.

John took hold of his wrists and pulled his hands aside. John smelled vaguely of bleach and something chemically lemon. Sherlock hated it. "Stop thinking," John snapped, trying to utilize his Captain Watson voice. Sherlock tightened his hands into fists for a moment before he unfurled his fingers, smoothing them over John's furrowed brow. The deep wrinkles smoothed, although John's gaze was no less concerned. "What is it?" John asked gently.

And Sherlock kissed him. Lightly. John's lips were wet- his tongue was so frequently sliding out to wet them- and Sherlock could taste over brewed tea on John. The smell of lemon and bleach wasn't as bad this close, and Sherlock's fingers slid over John's scalp, following the bumps and curves of his skull. It was a beautiful skull. Sherlock could tell.

John kissed him back, and when Sherlock pulled away his lips didn't follow, asking for more. He licked his lips, again, and opened his eyes. "I love you," Sherlock said without further preamble.

"I love you too," John replied, slightly breathless. "Why...why did you just do that?"

Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets. "I wanted to. I had to. Was it amenable?"

John nodded, mouthing the word yes even as no sound came out. "Was...was it good? For you? Was that alright?"

Sherlock grinned, one side of his mouth lifting. "Quite. May require more practice, but it does have promise."

John laughed. "Good."


	18. Chapter 18

John Watson was nervous. Moreso than he really should be, if he were to be completely honest. Jack was sitting at the small kitchen table, a knit cap on his head as he methodically ate his porridge as Sherlock banged about in his lab muttering to himself. In all it was a normal morning, except this morning was the morning Jack Holmes began school.

John regretted how protective he had been throughout Jack's childhood as he thought of how Jack hadn't spent a significant amount of time around other children in his life. Sure, he had played with other children at the park and had expressed no anxiety about going to school, but John still worried. It was all so very complicated. The majority of his childhood had been spent in the company of rather dour adults. And Molly. "You're coming with me to drop him off at school, aren't you?" John called into Sherlock's lab, hoping for support before he worked himself into a frenzy.

There was the sound of the clinking of glass and brief silence before Sherlock asked "Why?"

God, but John was tired of hearing that particular question. It seemed like it was the only word that Jack knew most of the time, and now Sherlock seemed to have acquired a fondness for it. "Because if someone with his surname is there to drop him off it will be less confusing for everyone involved. And I'm sure you'll have to fill in a form that allows me to pick him up. For all they know I'm just some random bloke who'll walk off with Jack."

Silence again. Sherlock appeared in the doorway with his goggles still on, holding his gloved hands in front of him stiffly. "You're legally his guardian, John. We've been over this, haven't we? Jack can go by Watson if he so chooses, it means little to me. He can choose an entirely new name if he likes, something fantastic or something completely ordinary."

"Trincess," Jack piped up thoughtfully, tapping his spoon to his nose. "Or Reecock. Those are good names."

"You aren't changing your name to Reecock," John sighed, clearing away his breakfast as Sherlock disappeared back into his lab. "Alright, get your coat and your school bag, we'll be late."

Jack jumped out of his seat, tugging at his uniform jumper with a bit of a frown as he did what he was told. Sherlock reappeared, without his goggles and gloves, and knelt down to help Jack shrug on his little Belstaff coat. "The uniform suits you," he said under his breath and Jack grinned. "No one will recognize you as a notorious pirate in that uniform."

"Come on then," John said as he opened the door to the flat, leading them downstairs. They bid Mrs. Hudson farewell and started off down the street.

They didn't make it far before Jack asked Sherlock to carry him on his shoulders and he obliged. "Are you ready for school, then? Are you excited?" John asked as he watched the pair of them, his hands in his pockets.

Jack rested his hands on Sherlock's head, threading his fingers though the curls. "Excited isn't the right word."

Sherlock chuckled under his breath and glanced over to John, who huffed out a little laugh. "What is the right word, then?"

Jack shrugged. "I don't know. But it's not excited."

Sherlock bounced the boy a bit before he said, "Why don't you find the right word at school today and tell John later. That way you'll at least learn something."

John wanted to frown at Sherlock, he really did, but Jack's stern little nod after his careful consideration of Sherlock's suggestion was enough to dissuade him from the idea. Instead John stepped back and watched Sherlock expertly hail a taxi.

* * *

"I've a plan."

John looked up from the text he was currently sending on Sherlock's behalf to find Sherlock staring out the window, his fingers curled slightly and resting on his lips. "You've a plan," John repeated, sending the text and crossing over to Sherlock to slip his phone back into his breast pocket. "Alright, I'm all ears."

Sherlock scoffed. "If you were that would be utterly repulsive."

"Figure of speech. Don't pretend you didn't know that."

"You've been thinking about going back to work. You miss being a doctor, you miss helping people," Sherlock began, tapping his fingertips on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "It's the perfect time, Jack starting school. I would ask for you to help me full time but you'd scoff at the idea. You prefer to be my unofficial assistant, wouldn't bear abide being paid for your services, even though all money made through my cases goes into a joint account to which you have full access. You want to be a doctor, so a doctor you shall be."

John sighed, sinking down in his chair. "You've really got to stop reading my mind, Sherlock. All right, I've thought about it but I don't want to go on the locum list. Too unpredictable. And I wouldn't be able to just drop everything and help you if I hired on at a practice or hospital. Not everyone is as accommodating as Sarah was."

"John." Sherlock's phone buzzed but he ignored it in favour of crossing over to John, crouching beside his chair as he took one of John's hands in his. "I told you I have a plan, stop being so obtuse. You'll have your own practice. We'll rent out 221C, you can practice out of the home and visit patients as need be. I can move my lab down there and your practice can take up the rest of the flat. It's ideal really- Jack can have his own room for his things, you can do what you are trained to do and you will be there if I require your assistance. It's the best possible solution."

"Is it really?" John asked with an incredulous little laugh. "So you've…you've thought this through? All possible angles."

"Of course."

John raised their joined hands to his face and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's knuckles. Sherlock looked little more than confused, so John offered him a smirk. "You're just trying to figure out the best possible way to ensure I never have to leave Baker Street again, aren't you?"

Sherlock rested his chin on the arm of John's chair. "I've already spoken to Mrs. Hudson, and she thinks it's a splendid idea. She's willing to cut us a deal on the rent as long as she's allowed to spoil Jack rotten. Her words, obviously."

John sighed and pulled his hand free. "It's a big decision Sherlock. I'll have to think on it. I mean…it sounds perfect, of course it does, I just…it's a lot. To take in."

Sherlock nodded curtly as he stood. "Right. Of course. Think on it."

John watched him, the firm set of Sherlock's shoulders as he returned to the window. "I'm pleased to see you excited at the prospect," John said, as a sort of peace offering.

There was a bit of a laugh in Sherlock's tone when he said, "Excited is not the right word."

* * *

They found out, after picking up Jack from his first day at school and taking him to dinner at Angelo's to celebrate, that the right word had been solicitous. S-O-L-I-C-I-T-O-U-S. And Jack loved his teacher, Mrs. Karch. And he had made a friend called Rhys whose dad was a soldier too.

And that he was no longer solicitous: he was excited after all.


	19. Chapter 19

"You've got freckles,' John noted, without preamble.

Sherlock hummed, not lifting his head from John's chest. "As do you. Most people do, in some form or another. Yours are more prevalent when you lose your tan." John had sprawled out on the couch and switched on some silly chat show, which had drawn Sherlock out of his lab. He sprawled on top of John, positioning the other man for maximum comfort. John had grumbled under his breath but allowed himself to be manhandled until they settled, Sherlock's hands resting on either side of John's chest, his ear pressed against his stomach. He could hear John's stomach gurgling and heart beating. It was the best sound he had heard all day.

John shifted a bit to get a better look at Sherlock's relaxed face, and he brushed aside his hair. "They're just…here," John slid his fingertips along Sherlock's hairline, from temple to temple, "And here," he added, tapping Sherlock's nose. "Light. Barely there. I've never noticed them before."

Sherlock sighed. "They first began to appear when I was nine," he said, his tone drawling and relaxed. "They used to fade completely in winter but remained a permanent fixture of my face at twenty-two. Most people don't notice them, but…"

"Most people are idiots," John finished with a smirk. "They _see, _but they don't _observe_."

Sherlock chuckled, and John carded his fingers through his hair. Sherlock shivered and turned his face into John's stomach, taking a deep breath of his scent. John smelled differently depending on the time of day, but the overriding notes were always of wool, Earl Grey, and something citrus- like oranges. Today John's smell was more dark and incredibly warm. It smelled like what Sherlock imagined a lion would smell like, although he had no evidence of this. He decided he would have to find a way to test this theory, and he took another deep breath.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed again as his head lifted and fell with John's steady breathing.

"I need to get up."

"I'm comfortable," Sherlock groaned, burrowing further into John. "You're comfortable."

John shifted underneath him and Sherlock lifted his head, his brow folded in a frown. "I'm not…comfortable," John stammered, his ears turning bright red with shame. "I mean…if we stay laying like this I can't…I don't want to…"

"Oh." Sherlock glanced down to John's crotch before sitting up, his mouth a thin line. "I apologize."

"I'm sorry," John muttered, lowering his face into his hands. "I can't…Just give me a minute, yeah?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, licking his lips. "Should I…would you like me to leave?"

"Don't be silly," John said with a little laugh. "It's just…been a while. My body's not quite used to this sort of think that doesn't…go any further. You know."

"Of course," Sherlock said, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. "I…I haven't formulated a solution for this…_particular _problem."

John shook his head. "It's not your job to come up with a solution for my erections, Sherlock. I can't expect you to…to consider my arousal. It's not something you have to deal with. That's my problem. You don't have to worry about it."

"I want you to be happy, John. If you feel like you're…unfulfilled, in that regard, of course I'll reconsider my position on the matter."

"No," John said with a resounding air of finality. "Definitely not. I'm not forcing you to do something you don't want to do. That's not fun for me. I don't want to have sex with you unless you want to as well. And I know you don't…the way you get turned on isn't sexual. And I understand that." Sherlock started to speak but John shook his head. "You may not use that particular wording, but I'm working with the sort of vocabulary I have at my disposal, alright? You get aroused. I see it. But it's not sexual. Sexual arousal is cheap, yeah? Arbitrary. Mental stimulation, that's what gets you. You're never happier than when you're solving a puzzle. I can read the signs. Your pupils dilate, your respiration increases, you get flushed…like you are now, in fact…and that's the epitome of desire for you. Your body is transport, I understand." Sherlock cleared his throat, his brow furrowed as John continued. "And then there's the rest of us, the majority of us, who are slaves to our bodies. To the endorphins. But seeing you solve those puzzles, helping you solve those puzzles, that's better than sex any day. It'd be nice, to have one off with someone, but it's not worth it. And we don't have to talk about it anymore, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," Sherlock replied, lowering his hands. "I find the whole thing rather…interesting. Scientifically speaking, of course. I admit that I'm not the most experienced when it comes to matters of the heart, but I will say that I shall never initiate something that I am not comfortable with. And I will not hesitate to inform you that I am uncomfortable, and neither shall you. And don't apologize for your arousal, you have as little control over it as I have over my lack. It's flattering, John. And I am sorry that I cannot…reciprocate."

"You do reciprocate," John said with a little smile. "Just in more complex ways that just allowing me to get a leg over." Sherlock chuckled and John rolled his eyes. "Right. Well, I seem to have regained control over my genitals."

"Oh god, please tell me you're not going to go talking about your genitals all the time now."

"My genitals are a fascinating conversational topic," John snorted, standing up. "I'll get Jack if you get the curry?"

Sherlock stood as well, resting his hand on the back of John's neck for a moment before he grabbed their jackets, holding out John's to help him with it on. "Deal."


	20. Chapter 20

John discovered the list on a Wednesday afternoon. He had just returned from fetching Jack from school and had sat the boy down with a glass of milk and his homework, despite protests. Sherlock was banging about downstairs in 221-C, setting up his equipment. He had stalled somewhere in the middle of the process of moving everything downstairs, somewhere around the actual heavy lifting, and he was obviously waiting for John to get frustrated and call in movers. Or a favour. Whichever came first.

John sighed and wandered into the half-empty bedroom, seeing what all he could move on his own.

That is when he saw the list.

It was clearly a work in progress. The items on the list were written in varying colours of ink and pencil. But all the items were in Sherlock's precise handwriting. It held no title, but each entry was numbered. It read:

_1. Mirror the actions and emotions of those around you. This allows you to appear more sympathetic. If unclear, smile. Smiling is a very good default, but be aware that you should always smile with your entire face. Just the mouth reads as insincere and threatening. _

_2. Be polite. Specifically the elderly, women, and people who are important or useful to you. _

_3. Allow yourself to make mistakes. People make mistakes. Allow others to witness you make mistakes. _

_4. Remember shame. Remember fear. Remember embarrassment. Remember love. _

_5. Apologize, when necessary. Err on the side of apologizing too much. _

_6. What would John do? Good rule of thumb. _

John wasn't sure what to make of the list, so he slipped it in his pocket and went back out into the kitchen. "I'm going to go see what Sherlock is up to," John said to Jack as he brushed past, ruffling the boy's hair as he went. "Shout when you're done and you can watch telly if you like."

"Yes dad," Jack grumbled, erasing furiously.

Sherlock, it seemed, had been more productive in 221-C than John had anticipated. The living area was filled with furniture, a flat screen telly, a chess board, and a shelf stuffed with books and magazines. A full skeleton was in the corner behind a small reception desk. John peeked into one of the bedrooms to see an exam table, still wrapped in plastic, and a cupboard filled with various medical tools.

Sherlock was in the next room, standing on a barstool in the middle of the room changing the light bulb. "There is no way you did all of this yourself," John said as the light flickered back on. Sherlock climbed down from the stool and rattled the used light bulb next to his ear. "You didn't set up your lab first. You would have done that straight off. You just didn't want movers touching your things."

"I've just had all the new things delivered," Sherlock said crisply. "I would like your assistance in moving the remaining furniture and equipment down this evening. I've nothing on tomorrow and I could have my room cleaned and set up for Jack. Have you talked to him about having his own room?"

"A bit," John replied. "He seems excited about it. We'll see how he does sleeping on his own."

Sherlock tossed the spent light bulb into the bin and walked over to the chessboard, touching the black queen. "I relished my space. The gradual separation is perfectly normal. Most psychiatrists agree."

Suddenly it all fell into place in John's mind. He pulled out the list, holding it out for Sherlock to take. "Is that what this is? What…rules to being normal? Do most psychiatrists believe this stuff too?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to the list before returning to John's face. His smile, despite his best advice, did not reach his eyes. "It's a precaution. I'm trying to help…"

"Well stop it," John snapped, tearing the list in half. "There is nothing wrong with you. You don't have to write lines like a child to drill this ridiculousness into your head, Sherlock! Is this what Mycroft has been harping on about for all these years? How to act like a normal, boring person? You obviously don't do it, why this shit now? I thought you stopped listening to Mycroft ages ago!"

Throughout John's speech, Sherlock's eyebrows rose higher and higher before collapsing into a frown. "You misunderstand, those notations are not for my sake, they are for Jack."

John scoffed. "Ah, so that makes it better, then? That you feel the need to…to what, Sherlock? Force him to adhere to a bloody stereotype? You can't possibly think that's a good idea, not after what your family forced on you."

Sherlock huffed, putting his hands on his hips as he studied John with a confused frown. "I don't understand…"

"You do understand, Sherlock, you do! You're just pretending you don't know how idiotic these fucking rules are." John huffed, tossing the list aside. "What would _I _do? No wonder you're an idiot most of the time. Honestly."

Sherlock shook his head, rolling his eyes heavenward. "They aren't _rules_, John. They are simply observations. I started taking note of all of the pertinent observations I have made throughout my life when it comes to social behaviour. I filed them away in my mind palace for further study from when I was very young, and I was trying to recall them specifically now, as they have become almost second nature at this point. I taught myself to actively accommodate my… social failings, as it were."

John was very still as he watched Sherlock pluck one of the pieces from the table and toss it in the air, catching it with ease. "So what…you think Jack has some of the same social failings?"

Sherlock shrugged, tossing the piece again. "Mycroft was convinced of the possibility at one point. One should be prepared for all possible scenarios. I could talk to Jack about it, if you like? Only if your amenable, of course."

John sighed, massaging his temples. "If you convince Jack that there is something wrong with him I will never forgive you, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with him. Despite the fact he had a dominatrix for a mother and a psychopath as a father, but he had no bloody control over that, yeah?"

Sherlock put down the chess piece and shook his head. "I'm preparing for a preemptive strike. Jack is terribly clever, and it won't be long before his classmates discover this. If Jack is prepared for the taunts that follow and is confident in his abilities, he will be spared the worst of the humiliation. I want to help him avoid the trouble I went through. Although I suppose because I boarded young, it was worse, but that's no matter…"

"Sherlock," John groaned, shaking his head. "I get it. You're trying to be helpful. But why don't you just…talk to him. This is something you should work out together. He'll be fine, he's got a very good role model here."

"Yes. What would John do. Good rule of thumb."

John chuckled darkly, rubbing his eyes. His anger was draining away slowly. "No, you berk. I was talking about you. Now come on, I need to be on with starting dinner soon and if you want me to help you move heavy things it's got to be before then."

Sherlock flushed a bit and nodded silently, leading the way back up to the flat. "Can I watch _Top Gear_?" Jack asked when the appeared, packing away his books.

"Not too loud," John replied, watching the boy bound off to the living room, grabbing the remote control before climbing to the very top of his pirate ship. John turned back to Sherlock and nodded. "Alright then. Let's get a move on."

* * *

The list came to be titled _The List; Or, Things that are a Bit Good by Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Jack Holmes, Consulting Pirate. (With additional notations by Dr. John H. Watson, Blogger and resident Boswell)_

It was a bit more slap-dash than the previous list, as it now contained three different and distinct hands. The original six items remained, and that evening both Jack and John added to it.

**7. Try to communicate your point of view. Not everyone can bloody well read minds. **

**8. Try not to jump to conclusions. Always allow the person you're upset with to explain themselves. Even if they are idiots. **

_**9. Be nice to Mrs. Hudson, she makes the best biscuits. **_

_**10. If dad says no, ask Sherlock. Sherlock will want to know why, and if you answer good he will help you. And not tell dad. **_

_11. Take time to stop and appreciate life on occasion. It is very easy to underestimate the beauty in the world, but incredibly hard to recapture when it's gone._

_**12. Don't ever play **_**Cluedo **_**with Sherlock. He is a very sore loser.**_

**13. Don't every play **_**Operation!**_** with Jack. The boy never loses. Not even to trained surgeons. **

The list was put on the refrigerator where it remains, constantly growing in length.

* * *

A/N

There is one more chapter of this fic before it is finished. But I'm not done playing in this universe. I want to explore the sexual side of John and Sherlock's relationship a bit, as well as some other little snippets. But this story arc is coming to a close. Everyone is getting settled.

Thanks so much, and if there is anything else you would love to see, just drop me a comment or message! I'm open to suggestions.


	21. Chapter 21

January was bitterly cold. John had dressed nicely, tucking his maroon shirt into his cords. He had even managed to put on a tie. He stalled in front of the mirror, rolled his eyes, and pulled on his thickest jumper. He decided that he would rather be warm than drawing any second glances. Who was he trying to impress, anyway?

He gathered everyone's coats and his and Sherlock's wallets before continuing on downstairs to 221-C, where Jack and Sherlock had wandered off to as soon as they had returned from school.

Jack was chattering away, recounting the entire day at school in excruciating detail. John was surprised to find Sherlock was mostly silent, only occasionally interjecting to ask questions of Jack or encourage him to continue.

"And Jessa fell down and scraped her knee. She was making such a fuss, and while Ian and Ahmed ran to get help, they're the fastest; I was trying to wash the wound. It had dirt and stuff, it needed to be clean, but she just kept screaming. I couldn't hold her down. She wouldn't listen to me, she wouldn't listen and I got in trouble. They thought I pushed her down, but I didn't."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, and John took a small step closer to the lab. After a moment Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "People cease to be logical when injured or pressured, Jack, you must remember that. And you cannot help someone who doesn't want to be helped. In such a case, you should just leave it be. An infection would have taught her to accept help more readily in future."

Jack scoffed, and Sherlock chuckled. "I had to stay after, in any case," Jack grumbled, and John decided to interrupt them at that moment.

He pushed open the door to the lab and sighed at the mess. They appeared to be in the middle of building a rocket. Jack was painting all the balsam various colours while Sherlock worked on stringing the fuse. "Alright then men, it's time to get going if we're going to arrive to the party on time," John said, surveying Jack and Sherlock's appearance. "Jack, tuck your shirt in. Sherlock, it's bloody freezing, are you sure you'll be warm enough? That shirt is made of silk."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock grumbled, standing up. He pulled his suit jacket back on. "We shall finish our rocket tomorrow, for now we must bow to the social niceties expected of the human race."

"You speak as though you aren't one of us," John said, rolling his eyes as he held out Jack's coat. "Hat and mittens are in the pockets."

"If I were only associated with the two of you I wouldn't mind," Sherlock said as he took his own coat out of John's arms. "But as it happens there are far more idiots than not. And it will take a great deal of willpower on my part to avoid pointing out that irrefutable fact at this ridiculous New Year's party Jack's school is insisting we attend."

John sighed. "We aren't staying long, just long enough for the conference with his teacher and then we're off. We'll be back in Baker Street in time for tea."

"Can we have pizza?" Jack asked as he pulled on his hat, following John out the door. Sherlock trailed behind, pulling on his leather gloves.

John shook his head. "We'll see."

"That means no," Sherlock said under his breath, and Jack groaned. Sherlock brushed past both of them and skilfully hailed a cab.

* * *

The party was the brainchild of Jack's teacher Miss Karch. She had wanted to try a different way of approaching the parent-teacher nights, and had settled on having a New Year's party the weekend after the New Year.

John had thought it was a novel idea, and Sherlock had written off the whole idea as 'patently ridiculous'. But Jack was excited to introduce all his friends to his parents, so when they arrived Jack didn't hesitate to start making the rounds, taking John by one hand and Sherlock by the other. Sherlock offered everyone a tight smile as he pulled out his mobile, texting swiftly. John dutifully shook hands with parents and waved at Jack's classmates until they reached a young woman with bright red hair and a wide smile, which was only enhanced by the crimson lipstick she wore on her plush lips.

"Miss Karch!" Jack said, dropping John and Sherlock's hand to give her a hug.

The teacher kneeled down to hug the boy back. "Hey Jack! Are you having fun at my party?"

Jack nodded and stepped back from her. She straightened her waistcoat and looked up at Sherlock and John. John noticed her gaze lingering over Sherlock, and he cleared his throat. "Dr. John Watson, nice to meet you," John said, holding out his hand.

She blushed and took his hand, laughing a bit. "Rachel Karch. I'm Jack's teacher, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Jack talks about you constantly."

John's smile grew wider. "All good, I hope." He couldn't help the glance he spared for her ample bust.

"Very good," she said, her eyes flicking back to Sherlock.

John cleared his throat, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. Sherlock sighed and put away his phone. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, without preamble. "A pleasure. John says we are supposed to have a conference of some sort?"

Miss Karch's brow furrowed just slightly before her face regained its positivity. "Right, of course! I'm sure you're very busy, what with your cases and such…" at John's curious glance she blushed again and said, "I've read your blog, Jack mentioned you were detectives and his surname was sort of a tip-off. I don't want to scare you, I'm not…a crazy fan girl or anything, but…I understand your time is very valuable. If you want to come with me to my office, we can talk very quickly?"

Perfect," Sherlock said with a slightly false smile, putting himself between John and Miss Karch. "Inform your other guests of your whereabouts and John and I will see ourselves in? Great."

Sherlock didn't wait for her response before he led the way into Miss Karch's office.

"Sorry about him," John muttered to Miss Karch before he looked down to Jack. "Why don't you play with your friends while we have a talk with your teacher, yeah?"

Jack nodded and disappeared into a group of children, approaching a little girl with a bandage over her knee. "It's alright," Miss Karch said, patting John's arm. "I'll be just a moment."

"I'll make sure he doesn't destroy your office," John said to her before he followed Sherlock's trail, like he always did.

"She likes you," Sherlock said without preamble as soon as John entered the office.

John sighed, dropping down in one of the chairs across from Miss Karch's desk. "Most people do. I'm a likeable enough bloke."

Sherlock huffed, his pacing not slowing. "You know what I mean. She is attracted to you, sexually. You promise comfort."

John sighed, massaging his temples. "She was looking at you. She's just…curious. And star-struck. Calm down, yeah? She's Jack's teacher."

Miss Karch entered, straightening the flower hair clip in her hair. John thought she and Molly would be great friends, even though the teacher had a photograph of two Jack Russell Terriers on her desk instead of cats. "Sorry," she said as she sat down, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. He did reluctantly, and she smiled, looked between them. "So what I wanted to talk to you about the most is Jack's…curiosity. He is a very intelligent and thoughtful boy, but as you know he was in trouble today."

"He said he got in trouble for pushing down a girl, but in actuality he was trying to help her," Sherlock said, his tone cold.

Miss Karch crossed her arms, her smile not wavering. "I am aware, yes. That was not the case. He was in trouble because he held her down to take samples. He admitted this to me later." She sighed, looking away from Sherlock's scowling face to John. "Now I love Jack. He is one of my best students and is always eager to help, and I wanted to make you aware of the situation on my end. I have had a talk with him about listening, but this may be a talk you should have with him as well. Most kids have a hard time with impulse control, but with Jack I feel like giving him logical explanations as to why he is not allowed to do some things would be the best option. He's terribly smart, and he really dislikes being talked down to."

"I wonder where he gets that," John muttered, and Miss Karch glanced at Sherlock, who was back on his phone. John rolled his eyes and turned back to Miss Karch. "Thank you very much. I think Sherlock has already had a bit of a talk with him, but I will as well. He's a bit too smart for his own good, at times. Putting experiments first. We'll work with him to learn how to talk to other kids; he's not really been around many kids in his life. And our life is rather…hectic." John coloured a bit, shaking his head. "Thanks for approaching us about this."

"Of course," Miss Karch chirped, standing up. "I just want to keep an open dialogue between us, and really be a united front in helping Jack learn proper school behaviour. I don't want him to be bullied, and I don't want his classmates to be scared of him. I know being around someone who is highly intelligent can be a bit daunting."

John chuckled as he stood, holding his hand out for her to shake. "Believe me, I know. I've lived with a genius for years. He's really good at making me feel like an idiot."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit and tossed his phone in the air, catching it swiftly. "Are we done here?"

"Yes Sherlock, we're done," John sighed, dropping Miss Karch's hand. "Thanks again, Miss Karch."

"Please, it's Rachel," she said, crossing back over to the door, waving them through. "If you have any questions don't hesitate to contact me. I'm always here."

"Thanks," John replied, already looking for Jack's head in the crowd.

Sherlock watched Miss Karch sharply as she moved over to a gathered group of parents. He smirked when she turned back over her shoulder at John, briefly. He tucked away his phone and followed John through the crowd.

* * *

They arrived back to Baker Street, Sherlock leading the way. Jack was surprisingly quiet as they climbed the stairs to 221-B, and John had the boy's hand tightly in his. Sherlock stilled just outside the door, his head cocked to the side slightly.

"Someone's in the flat," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Posh," John said, rolling his eyes as he laid a hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "There's no one in the flat."

Sherlock's hand hovered over the door handle. "Did you lock the door when we left?"

John sighed, reaching around him to unlock the door. "Of course I did. You're being paranoid, Sherlock. It's fine."

"It's all well and good until we get murdered," Sherlock muttered, looking down at Jack, whose eyes were wide and innocent. "You should have brought your gun."

John rolled his eyes and pushed the door open, stepping into the flat to turn on the light. "I wasn't bringing a gun to Jack's school, that's ludicrous. Come on then." Sherlock followed him hesitantly, making sure to keep Jack behind him. He started to speak, but was interrupted when a group of people burst out of Jack's room, yelling "SURPRISE!" Jack's voice joined in from behind him, and Sherlock looked to John, frowning.

"It's your birthday, idiot," John said, laughing.

Molly, who was holding a cake, stepped forward to put it on the kitchen table with a smile. "Surely you didn't forget your own birthday, Sherlock."

"Happy birthday Sherlock!" Jack shrieked, launching himself onto him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. "We surprised you good! Dad didn't think I'd be able to keep the secret from you, but I did! I was really good!"

"You were!" Mrs. Hudson said, clapping her hands as Greg pulled her into a half-hug.

"Well…say something, genius," Greg chuckled, his smile wide.

Sherlock cleared his throat, wrapping his arms around Jack. "I am…surprised. It's hard to surprise me. Obviously."

Mycroft stepped toward John, arching a brow. "I believe my brother means to say thank you."

"Of course," Sherlock said, putting Jack down. "Thank you," he said, pulling Mrs. Hudson into a hug, then Molly, and then, after a moment's hesitation, Greg. He glanced to Mycroft warily, and his brother offered him a half-smile. It was enough.

"Cake!" Jack said, circling the kitchen island twice before he dragged Mrs. Hudson over to cut it.

"You need some dinner first, I've a roast going down in my flat that should be about done," she said, tapping him on his nose. "Greg dear, can you help me bring up the food for everyone?"

"Yeah, of course," he said, dropping a kiss on Molly's head before he followed Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

Molly started setting the table, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards John, who was studying the hem of his jumper with interest. Sherlock rolled his eyes minutely and cleared his throat, crossing to him.

"Was this your idea then?" Sherlock asked, leaning into him.

John's ears coloured, but he looked up at Sherlock steadily. "I figured you'd forgotten. Mycroft said you're turning forty."

Sherlock scoffed, and John grinned. "I'm terribly old."

John licked his lips and averted his eyes. "Being old is proof that you're still alive."

Sherlock felt something clench in his chest, and he raised a hand to wrap his fingers around John's wrist. He could feel his pulse, and it was racing, and Sherlock's smile widened. "Thank you. This was a wonderful surprise."

John looked back up at Sherlock, his smile bright but hesitant. "I'm glad. I was a bit worried."

Sherlock leaned in, grazing his nose along John's jawline. His stubble caused a slight burn, and his skin was warm and soft. "I want you to kiss me," Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes.

John's breath was shaky. "Molly and your brother are right here. And Jack might eat all the cake if we don't watch him closely enough."

"Sod the cake," Sherlock sighed, and before he could take another breath John's lips were against his. Hesitantly at first, but with Sherlock's instinctive gasp of their shared breath John pulled him closer, resting a steadying hand on Sherlock's hip.

John was the first to pull away, his entire face red and his lips wet. Sherlock embraced the overwhelming affection that flooded his body at the sight of him. "Happy birthday," John said with a breathy chuckle.

Sherlock ached to say 'I love you'. And so he did.


End file.
